r  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  O 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 
Douglas  Warren 


t 


&* 


'- 


JOLIA  CALIFORNIA 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 


The 

Land  of  the  Castanet 

Spanish  Sketches 

BY 

H.  C.  Chatfield  -  Taylor 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHICAGO 

HERBERT  S.  STONE  &*  CO. 
1896 


COPYRIGHT,     1896,    BY 
HERBERT  S.  STONE  &  CO. 


Contents 

Page 

I.  THE    SPANIARD,  I 

II.  THE   CAPITAL    OF    SPAIN,  26 

III.  SPANISH    SOCIETY,  6 1 

IV.  SEVILLE  THE    FAIR,  83 

V.  SPANISH   SPORTS,  114 

VI.  CORDOVA    THE    MAGNIFICENT,  136 

VII.  GRANADA    THE    FALLEN,  159 

VIII.  PROVINCIAL    TOWNS,  1 86 

IX.  THE    COMMON    PEOPLE,  211 

X.  GIBRALTAR,  236 


Note 

Several  of  these  papers  have  already  ap- 
peared in  "The  Cosmopolitan;"  the  others 
have  been  written  simply  as  sketches  of  Spanish 
scenes  and  character.  Being  originally  intended 
for  a  magazine  they  do  not  possess  the  continuity 
demanded  of  the  chapters  of  a  book.  The  apology 
for  their  publication  in  the  present  form  is  the 
hope  that  their  perusal  may  awaken  in  the  reader 
an  interest  in  a  country  somewhat  removed 
from  the  beaten  track  of  travel,  whose  history 
is  closely  allied  with  our  own,  but  whose  people 
we  little  understand.  There  has  been  no  attempt 
to  make  the  volume  exhaustive  ;  it  is  merely  a 
collection  of  sketches,  and  as  such  it  should  be 
considered. 

Chicago,  September,  1896. 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

The  Spaniard 

IN  the  evolution  of  that  proud,  sensi- 
tive, indolent,  sometimes  cruel,  but 
more  often  chivalrous  race  whom  we  call 
the  Spaniards,  the  elements  of  history 
have  been  so  clearly  denned,  so  varied  in 
their  effect,  that  each  era  has  left  its 
indelible  imprint  upon  the  national 
character. 

One  often  wonders  why  Spain,  the 
former  mistress  of  the  world,  a  land  of 
such  delightful  climate  and  such  fertile 
soil,  surrounded  by  the  sea  and  an  almost 
impassable  rampart  of  mountains,  and 
seemingly  possessed  of  every  blessing 
which  nature  can  bestow,  should,  after 
eighteen  centuries  of  glorious  history, 
have  fallen  to  the  second  rank  among  the 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

powers  of  the  world,  and  be  the  last 
among  the  nations  of  Europe  to  respond 
to  the  influences  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury. 

The  answer  is  to  be  read  in  the  pages 
of  her  history.  There  is  a  limit  to  the 
endurance  of  a  nation,  and  Spain  has 
suffered  more  than  any  other  land.  For 
that  reason  she  presents  the  spectacle 
of  a  proud-spirited  warrior  who  has 
struggled  bravely  against  overwhelming 
odds  and  has  fallen  from  sheer  exhaus- 
tion. Other  nations  have  fought  and 
bled  and  have  won  their  freedom.  The 
Spaniards  have  fought  and  bled  as  freely 
as  the  proudest  of  them,  but  their  efforts 
have  been  frustrated.  They  have  never, 
until  within  a  decade  or  so,  known  the 
blessings  of  freedom,  and  since  they  have 
been  a  united  nation  have  not  even  been 
ruled  by  a  despot  of  a  Spanish  house. 
They  have  had  despots  without  number, 
and  they  might  have  endured  them  had 
they  been  of  Spanish  blood.  It  is  a  com- 
mon saying  in  Spain  that  the  first  Span- 


The  Spaniard 

ish  king  was  the  late  Alfonzo  XII.  At 
least,  he  was  the  first  Spanish  king 
whose  sympathies  were  Spanish,  and 
whose  reign  strengthened  Spain.  Philip 
II.  was  morbidly  Spanish  in  his  feelings, 
but  his  rule  hastened  the  ruin  of  his 
country,  a  ruin  from  which  it  has  never 
recovered. 

In  talking  with  Spaniards  not  of  the 
ruling  classes,  one  hears  continually  that 
the  people  are  good  but  that  the  govern- 
ment is  bad.  It  is  always  the  same 
story:  the  woes  of  the  land  are  laid  to 
the  government;  and  certainly  if  the 
successive  governments  of  Spain  from 
the  time  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  to  the 
present  day  could  be  tried  before  an 
impartial  jury,  no  verdict  too  severe 
could  be  rendered. 

The  people  of  Spain  are  good ;  none  but 
a  good  people  could  have  been  loyal  to 
such  rulers,  but  mere  loyalty,  pride, 
or  even  daring,  does  not  make  a  people 
great.  There  must  be  energy  and  activ- 
ity; there  must  be  commercial  enterprise, 
3 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

and  these  the  Spaniards  do  not  possess. 
Again  it  is  the  fault  of  the  rulers.  A 
middle  class  is  the  backbone  and  sinew 
of  a  successful  nation,  and  Spain,  except 
in  Catalonia,  does  not  possess  a  middle 
class.  If  the  Spanish  rulers  wish  to 
know  the  effect  of  a  middle  class  upon  a 
nation,  they  need  look  no  further  than 
Catalonia;  the  object  lesson  is  com- 
plete. Barcelona,  the  Chicago  of  Spain, 
is  as  active,  bustling,  and  energetic  as 
its  American  prototype,  and  does  nearly 
one-third  of  the  entire  importing  and 
exporting  business  of  the  Peninsula. 
But  the  Catalans  are  mere  shop-keepers, 
and  the  Spaniard,  if  he  is  not  a  peasant, 
must  be  a  gentleman.  The  middle  class 
has  been  killed  and  stultified  by  legisla- 
tion and  sentiment. 

Before  condemning  or  condoning  the 
Spaniard  of  to-day,  it  is  worth  while  to 
review  his  history  and  study  the  effect 
of  each  successive  era  on  his  character. 

The  earliest  Spaniards  of  whom  we 
possess  any  knowledge  were  the  Celts 
4 


The  Spaniard 

and  Iberians,  known  collectively  as  the 
Celtiberians.  Their  history,  or  its  frag- 
ments, as  told  by  their  enemies,  is  the 
history  of  the  true  Spaniards, — a  history 
of  valor  and  generosity,  of  restless  vigor 
and  almost  heroic  endurance.  These 
have  been  the  qualities  of  Spaniards  in 
all  ages.  In  the  course  of  time  the  trad- 
ing Phoenician  established  himself  along 
the  whole  south  coast  of  the  Peninsula, 
and  after  the  Phoenicians  came  the 
Greeks.  But  the  Greeks  and  Phoenicians 
were  merchants  rather  than  soldiers. 
For  years  they  made  no  attempt  to  ex- 
tend their  possessions  beyond  the  coast. 
About  four  hundred  and  eighty  years 
before  Christ,  some  eager  spirits  met  at 
Gadeira  and  undertook  an  expedition 
into  southern  Celtiberia.  The  bold 
tribesmen  there  not  only  repulsed  the 
invaders,  but  they  invaded  in  return. 
Gadeira  was  threatened  with  assault, 
and  the  frightened  Phoenicians  applied  for 
assistance  to  the  Carthaginians. 

At  that  moment  the    real  history  of 
5 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Spain  began, — a  history  repeated  with 
recurring  fatality  during  the  ages.  The 
Carthaginians,  like  all  subsequent  for- 
eigners called  to  aid  tottering  power  in 
the  Peninsula,  possessed  themselves  of 
Spain.  For  two  hundred  and  fifty  years 
they  ruled  the  coast;  then  Hamilcar 
Barca  and  his  greater  son  Hannibal 
overran  the  Peninsula.  Saguntum  alone 
held  out.  The  marvelous  resistance  of 
this  city  marked  the  first  of  the  glorious 
Spanish  sieges,  lasting  to  the  heroic  de- 
fense of  Saragossa  against  the  arms  of 
Napoleon.  In  those  wars  against  the 
Carthaginians,  the  Romans  became  the 
allies  of  the  Spaniards,  and  again  the  ally 
became  the  conqueror.  But  the  con- 
querors discovered  the  heroic  spirit  of 
the  nation  they  had  betrayed  in  the  per- 
son of  Viriathus,  a  Lusitanian  shepherd, 
who  seven  times  in  the  open  field  routed 
the  Roman  legions,  and  again  in  the 
defense  of  Numantia  against  the  over- 
powering armies  of  the  republic.  This 
was  carried  to  such  an  extremity  that 
6 


The  Spaniard 

the  few  survivors — men,  women  and 
children — resolved  to  die  by  their  own 
hand  rather  than  that  a  single  Numan- 
tian  should  grace  a  Roman  triumph. 

It  only  remained  for  Caesar  to  com- 
plete the  work  of  conquest,  and  Spain 
became,  in  Hispania  Romana,  a  Roman 
province.  The  effect  on  the  Spaniard 
of  this  foreign  rule  was  so  complete  that 
it  survives  to-day  in  his  language,  his 
laws  and  many  of  his  customs.  The 
province  became  completely  Roman, 
giving  emperors  and  poets  to  the  empire, 
and  so  thoroughly  united  to  its  mistress 
that  it  is  to-day,  more  completely  than 
France,  a  Latin  country. 

In  the  disintegration  of  the  Roman 
Empire  Spain  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  Visi- 
goths; but  the  final  death  struggle  was 
delayed  for  a  time  by  a  typical  Span- 
iard, the  devout,  passionate,  noble- 
minded  emperor,  Theodosius,  the  first 
inquisitor,  the  precursor  at  once  of  Isa- 
bella the  Catholic  and  of  Philip  II. 
Theodosius  died  in  395  A.  D.,  and  in 
7 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

five  years  Alaric  was  in  Italy.  While 
the  sturdy  Goth  conquered  Italy,  the 
Vandals  and  their  savage  companions 
devastated  Spain.  The  barbarian  host 
marched  unchecked  across  the  Peninsula. 
What  had  the  Romanizing  of  the  Penin- 
sula accomplished?  Where  were  the 
Celtiberians  and  the  Lusitanians  who  for 
nearly  two  centuries  had  resisted  the 
forces  of  republican  Rome?  The  con- 
quest was  more  complete,  more  easily 
accomplished  than  that  of  the  Moors 
three  centuries  later.  The  reason  for 
the  two  conquests  is  to  be  found  in  the 
system  of  domestic  slavery  of  the  Romans 
and  the  Visigoths.  A  change  of  masters 
was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  the  down- 
trodden people ;  those  who  were  not  slaves 
or  paupers  were  decayed  into  moral 
pauperism  by  luxury. 

The  history  of  the  Visigothic  kingdom 
embraces  three  hundred  years  of  de- 
bauchery, intrigue  and  murder.  Roman 
Spain  wrought  a  marvelous  change  in 
her  masters.  They  adopted  the  veneer 
8 


The  Spaniard 

of  civilization  in  its  vices  and  luxury,  and 
ceased  to  be  warriors.  But  in  those 
Visigothic  days  one  great  question  was 
fought  out  and  settled,  seemingly  forever 
— the  question  between  Church  and 
State.  Spain  was  now  a  hierarchy,  in 
which  ecclesiastical  influence  became  all 
powerful.  One  great  man  struggled 
against  this  usurpation ;  but  Wamba,  the 
best  among  the  miserable  line  of  Gothic 
kings,  fell  a  prey  to  ecclesiastical  treach- 
ery, and  Spain  passed  under  the  control 
of  ecclesiasticism,  a  control  cemented 
by  seven  centuries  of  Moorish  warfare. 
Although  scarcely  a  trace  of  Visigoths 
remains  in  Spain  beyond  a  few  ruins  and 
some  of  their  multitudinous  laws  en- 
grafted into  the  "Siete  Partidas"  of 
Alfonso  the  Wise,  their  policy  carried 
on  through  generations  has  in  more 
ways  than  one  been  the  ruin  of  Spain. 
Besides  developing  ecclesiastical  power 
in  the  affairs  of  state,  they  inaugurated 
the  persecution  of  the  Jews,  and  the 
Visigothic  Metropolitans  became  the 
9 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

forerunners  of  Torquemada  and  his  in- 
quisitorial host. 

But  enough  of  Gothic  rule.  It  was  a 
decayed  exotic  which  withered  before 
the  Arab  blast.  The  enervated  Goth 
fell  a  prey  to  his  own  treachery,  and  the 
Arab  overran  his  land.  The  few  rem- 
nants gathered  in  the  far  Asturias,  and 
raising  Pelayo,  a  relative  of  the  con- 
quered Roderic,  upon  their  shields, 
proclaimed  the  first  king  of  a  line  des- 
tined to  reconquer,  step  by  step,  the 
fair  land  of  Spain.  When  Pelayo  and  his 
little  band  of  refugees  drove  back  the 
Moors  by  hurling  stones  from  their  rock- 
cut  cave  at  Covadonga,  upon  the  strug- 
gling hosts  below,  they  inaugurated  those 
seven  centuries  of  incessant  warfare 
which  were  to  be  at  once  the  making 
and  the  marring  of  the  Spanish  nation. 

Of  the  Moors  in  Spain  little  need  be 
said.  Theirs  is  a  history  apart,  ro- 
mantic, fascinating,  and  seemingly  in- 
credible; marvelous  in  its  development, 
miserable  in  its  decay.  They  vanished  as 
10 


The  Spaniard 

they  came,  leaving  scarcely  a  trace  be- 
yond the  graceful  arches  and  shady 
courts  of  their  palaces  and  mosques. 
But  the  effect  of  Moorish  wars  upon  the 
Spanish  character  is  seemingly  indelible. 
They  were  seven  centuries  of  crusades; 
seven  centuries  of  warfare  for  the  Catho- 
lic faith.  The  crusader  is  a  fanatic,  and 
a  nation  of  crusaders  developed  by  hun- 
dreds of  years  of  religious  wars,  must, 
perforce,  become  a  nation  of  fanatics. 
The  cross  was  the  national  standard; 
the  Church  became  truly  a  church  mili- 
tant, for  bishops  rode  at  the  head  of 
armies,  and  religion  was  the  dominant 
sentiment  of  the  nation — hatred  of  in- 
fidels and  heretics  its  dominant  passion. 
In  the  mountain  fastnesses  of  the  As- 
turias  the  banner  of  the  cross  was  un- 
furled, and  step  by  step  it  advanced, 
sometimes  wavering  but  always  facing 
the  foe,  until  it  floated  triumphant  from 
the  walls  of  Granada.  Except  when 
Charles  Martel  repulsed  the  Moor  at 
Tours,  the  rest  of  Europe  was  never 
ii 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

threatened  by  the  Crescent.  Fanatics 
and  adventurers  went  forth  from  Eng- 
land, France  and  Germany  to  fight  and 
squabble  in  the  Holy  Land,  but  that 
was  not  religious  warfare  as  the  Span- 
iards knew  it.  In  fighting  for  his  faith, 
he  was  fighting  for  his  home;  to  him 
religion  meant  existence.  Is  it  any  won- 
der that  he  became  a  fanatic,  and  his 
land  the  stronghold  of  the  Church? 
There  could  be  but  one  religion  for  such 
a  people.  It  was  his  faith,  for  which  the 
Spaniard  fought,  and  in  consequence  the 
ecclesiastic  obtained  a  power  which  he 
has  never  attained  elsewhere — even  in 
Italy  itself.  The  fall  of  Granada  took 
place  but  four  hundred  years  ago.  Is 
it  any  wonder  that  the  religious  impetus 
of  those  seven  centuries  should  have 
lasted  even  to  our  day?  The  religious 
fervor  which  was  excited  to  inspire  the 
armies  has  endured,  and  with  it  the  ab- 
horrence for  all  that  is  Mohammedan. 
It  is  declared  that  because  bathing  was 
a  religious  ceremony  of  the  Moor,  it, 
12 


The  Spaniard 

perforce,  became  an  unholy  act  for  the 
Spaniard. 

With  the  fall  of  Granada  Spain  be- 
came a  nation.  For  the  first  time  the 
many  petty  kingdoms  which  had  arisen 
from  the  remnants  of  Gothic  rule  were 
united  in  the  persons  of  Ferdinand  of 
Aragon  and  Isabella  of  Castile.  Only 
Portugal  held  aloof,  and  there  was  every 
promise  that  she  too  might  be  brought 
within  the  national  fold.  But  the  Catho- 
lic kings,  the  creators  of  United  Spain, 
sowed  the  seeds  of  her  ruin.  Isabella, 
the  sterling  womanly  queen,  whose  love 
for  her  people  and  zeal  for  her  Church 
carried  her  to  the  point  of  fanaticism, 
and  Ferdinand,  the  crafty,  grasping 
politician,  combined  those  qualities 
which,  intensified  in  the  persons  of 
Charles  I.  and  his  son  Philip,  were  to 
complete  the  ruin  of  Spain. 

The  moment  the  Spanish  Empire  was 

fully  created,  it  began  to  disintegrate. 

A  century  of  victories  followed,  but  they 

were  ruinous  to  Spain.    Isabella  the  zeal- 

13 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

ous,  Ferdinand  the  crafty,  each  played  a 
characteristic  part  in  the  ruin  of  their 
country,  a  ruin  they  could  not  foresee, 
but  one  which  was  sure  to  follow  the 
mistaken  policy  they  inaugurated.  The 
same  hand  which  sent  Columbus  forth 
to  add  a  new  world  to  Castile  signed  the 
edict  for  the  expulsion  of  the  Jews,  and 
sent  two  hundred  thousand  Spaniards, 
men,  women  and  children,  rich  and 
poor,  able  and  infirm,  forth  from  their 
homes  to  suffer  and  die  in  exile. 

Sisenand,  the  Goth,  had  nine  hundred 
years  before  promulgated  a  similar  de- 
cree, but  he  had  been  too  tender-hearted 
to  enforce  it.  Seven  centuries  of  reli- 
gious warfare  had  hardened  the  heart  of 
even  the  best  of  Spanish  rulers.  The 
persecution  of  the  Moors,  and  their  final 
expulsion  by  one  of  the  weak-minded 
Philips,  was  merely  a  corollary  to  this 
act,  and  finally,  beyond  these  cruelties, 
came  the  dreadful  engine  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion. Torquemada,  the  queen's  confes- 
sor, whose  name  is  synonymous  with 


The  Spaniard 

cruelty  and  persecution,  was  placed  in 
charge,  with  orders  to  stamp  out  heresy, 
of  whatever  trifling  shade  of  opinion, 
and  over  ten  thousand  persons  were 
burned  alive  during  the  eighteen  years 
of  his  supremacy.  The  Inquisition  of 
Torquemada's  day  was  merely  directed 
against  the  Jews.  Yet  the  sufferings  of 
the  Jew  and  the  Moor  were  but  a  part  of 
the  injury  which  Isabella's  zeal  brought 
to  her  land.  The  Jews  and  the  Moors 
were  traders  and  artisans — in  a  word, 
they  were  the  middle  class.  The  Span- 
iard, on  the  contrary,  was  always  either 
a  warrior,  a  priest,  or  a  peasant.  The 
land  when  bereft  of  the  Jew  and  the 
Moor  lost  that  commercial  element 
which  is  the  leaven  of  every  prosperous 
country.  A  nation  all  warriors,  priests 
and  peasants  can  never  thrive.  One 
useful  class,  however,  remained — the 
thinkers. 

But  Spain  was  still  to  suffer  a  severer 
blow.     Presently  the  fires  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion   were     lighted     for    the    thinkers. 
15 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Free  thought  was  refused  a  place  in 
Spanish  counsels,  and  with  it  went  the 
philosopher,  the  scientist,  and  the  in- 
ventor. Then  the  soldier,  the  priest, 
and  the  peasant  alone  remained.  There 
were  painters  and  writers,  to  be  sure, 
but  they  painted  and  wrote  to  please  the 
court;  they  dared  not  think.  That  they 
were  great  in  spite  of  the  Inquisition 
and  its  horrors  was  a  tribute  to  their 
capability. 

All  this  was  the  miserable  outcome  of 
Isabella's  zeal  for  her  faith.  Philip  II. 
but  continued  to  the  bitter  end  the  pol- 
icy she  had  inaugurated.  But  Isabella 
was  not  alone  in  sowing  the  seeds  of  her 
country's  downfall.  Ferdinand,  crafty 
and  grasping,  saw  in  the  broad  field  of 
European  politics  a  goal  for  his  ambi- 
tion. He  schemed,  and  while  he  plotted 
his  soldiers  fought,  until  Italy  and  Sicily 
were  under  his  sway.  The  Austrian 
marriage  of  his  daughter  brought  the 
half  of  Europe  under  the  scepter  of  his 
grandson,  Charles  I. 
16 


The  Spaniard 

While  Isabella  with  her  Ximenes  and 
her  Torquemada  were  cementing  the 
already  overweening  ecclesiastical  power, 
the  Spanish  soldiers  of  Gonzalo  de  Cor- 
dova— "The  Great  Captain" — trained  in 
Moorish  warfare,  were  revolutionizing 
tactics  on  the  plains  of  Italy,  and  making 
the  Spanish  infantry  the  terror  of  Eu- 
rope. A  new  world,  too,  was  being 
added  to  the  Spanish  crown,  in  order 
that  its  gold  might  defray  the  expense 
of  conquest. 

The  warlike  spirit  and  the  fanaticism 
engendered  by  the  Moorish  wars  sought 
new  outlets  on  the  battle-fields  of  Europe 
and  in  the  Auto  de  F£.  It  was  an  age 
of  martial  glory  for  the  Spaniard,  but 
won  at  what  a  price !  Conquest  for  the 
love  of  conquest;  persecution  in  the 
name  of  religion.  The  warrior  and  the 
cleric  were  all  dominant:  the  peasant 
paid  the  price.  Charles  I.  and  Philip  II. 
were  but  a  repetition  of  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella,  save  that  the  one  was  a  greater 
soldier  and  the  other  a  more  relentless 
'7 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

bigot.  The  one  was  a  foreigner  who 
saw  in  Spain  merely  a  means  to  satisfy 
his  ambition;  the  other  a  Spaniard  who 
saw  in  his  foreign  subjects  a  means  to 
satisfy  his  fanaticism.  Both  continued 
the  ruin  of  Spain  which  the  Catholic 
kings  had  commenced. 

When  their  reigns  were  over,  Spain 
was  exhausted;  the  soldier  and  eccle- 
siastic had  held  full  sway,  but  there  were 
no  more  soldiers  to  fight,  and  no  here- 
tics were  left  to  burn;  there  was  no 
commercial  and  artisan  class  to  recoup 
the  resources  of  the  realm.  Those 
whom  persecution  had  spared,  finan- 
cial laws  had  ruined,  so  there  was 
nothing  for  the  soldier  and  religious  to 
do  but  squabble,  and  plot,  and  quarrel. 
Nothing  for  the  peasant  but  to  toil  and 
suffer.  The  country  was  in  the  un- 
healthy ferment  of  stagnation.  A  good 
king  might  have  saved  the  land  even 
then;  but  instead  there  came  a  sequence 
of  three  imbeciles  from  the  House  of 
Austria,  and  a  line  of  foreign  Bourbons 
18 


The  Spaniard 

thrust  on  Spain  through  the  war  of  the 
Spanish  succession.  One  court  favorite 
after  another  ruled  the  unhappy  land. 
One  province  after  another  fell  away, 
until  only  the  mother-country,  Cuba,  and 
a  few  scattered  islands  remained. 

The  Spaniard  bore  misrule  more  pa- 
tiently than  his  treatment  warranted. 
What  good  government  might  have 
done  for  Spain  was  exemplified  by  the 
wise  internal  policy  of  Charles  III. 
Had  his  successors  been  of  his  own  stamp, 
instead  of  that  of  the  miserable  Charles 
IV.,  and  the  yet  more  unfortunate  Fer- 
dinand VII.,  Spain  might  still  stand 
among  the  great  powers  of  the  world. 
But  in  those  days  of  her  deepest  adver- 
sity, when  her  monarch  and  his  son  were 
quarreling,  and  after  seven  kings  in 
succession  had  wasted  what  few  re- 
sources the  aggressive  policy  of  Charles 
I.  and  Philip  II.  had  left  untouched, 
unhappy  Spain  fought  for  her  worthless 
royal  house  against  the  power  of  Napo- 
leon as  no  country  in  Europe  fought. 
19 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

The  French  could  not  conquer  the 
Spaniard,  and  in  the  siege  of  Saragossa 
the  heroism  of  Saguntum  and  Numantia 
was  reenacted.  It  is  difficult,  however, 
to  judge  correctly  the  history  of  the 
Peninsula  war.  The  English  authorities 
scarcely  consider  the  Spaniard,  the 
Spanish  writers  begrudgingly  acknowl- 
edge the  help  rendered  by  the  Briton  in 
driving  the  French  from  their  land. 
But  of  Saragossa  there  can  be  but  one 
opinion :  there  were  no  British  there,  and 
the  annals  of  that  siege  are  among  the 
most  heroic  in  history. 

The  reward  of  the  Spaniard  for  his 
noble  resistance  was  a  king,  if  possible 
more  pernicious  than  any  who  had  gone 
before.  In  the  person  of  Ferdinand  VII. 
were  united  the  worst  qualities  a  mon- 
arch could  possess,  and  those  he  did  not 
have  he  found  in  his  queen.  The  latter 
was  the  disturbing  spirit  of  the  reign  of 
the  young  Queen  Isabella  II.  She  plot- 
ted and  intrigued,  and  by  her  example 
and  teaching  made  possible  the  unhappy 
20 


The  Spaniard 

ending  of  that  queen's  reign.  Isabella 
was  not  at  heart  as  bad  as  she  has  been 
painted,  but  she  was  capricious  and 
passionate,  and  between  Espartero, 
O'Donnell,  Serrano,  and  the  Carlist  pre- 
tenders, the  wretched  country  was  drag- 
ged on  a  steadily  downward  career.  Yet 
Isabella  conferred  one  blessing  upon  her 
country:  she  founded  the  Guardia  Civil, 
a  gendarmerie  modeled  after  the  Holy 
Brotherhood  of  her  great  namesake,  an 
exemplary  police,  who  have  made  travel- 
ing in  Spain  as  safe  as  in  any  country  of 
Europe. 

The  revolution  which  drove  Isabella 
from  her  throne,  the  provisional  govern- 
ment of  General  Prim,  the  short-lived 
monarchy  of  Amadeus,  the  equally 
short-lived  republic  of  Castelar,  were 
but  the  desperation  of  a  people  who 
could  endure  no  more.  Ground  down 
by  oppression,  they  struggled  to  free 
themselves  from  their  miserable  rulers, 
but  the  governments  thus  created  so 
passionately  were  too  quickly  formed, 

21 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

though  out  of  them  grew  a  monarchy 
more  liberal,  more  tolerant  than  any 
which  had  gone  before.  Alfonso  XII. 
was  not  an  exemplary  king,  but  he  was 
good  as  kings  go  in  Spain.  He  was 
Spanish  in  his  sympathies,  and  he  ac- 
complished as  much  as  could  be  ex- 
pected of  a  monarch  whose  throne  was 
so  unstable.  In  his  wife,  Queen  Maria 
Christina,  the  present  regent,  Spain  has 
the  first  requisite  of  a  happy  land,  a  ruler 
whom  the  people  not  only  respect  but 
truly  love. 

Twenty  years  of  peace  have  been  of 
inestimable  benefit  to  the  people  of  the 
Peninsula;  but  the  country  was  in  too 
exhausted  a  condition  immediately  to 
resume  its  place  among  the  nations  of 
the  world.  And  now  comes  this  wretched 
Cuban  war  to  arrest  again  the  hand  of 
progress.  The  Spaniard  had  not  learned 
in  the  school  of  adversity  the  lesson 
which  should  have  stood  him  in  stead  at 
this  crisis.  Had  he  seen  in  his  own 
struggles  against  the  Roman  and  the 

22 


The  Spaniard 

Moor,  in  the  revolt  of  the  Netherlands, 
in  his  own  fight  against  Napoleon,  and 
in  the  fight  for  freedom  of  his  American 
colonies,  the  futility  of  forcing  a  foreign 
rule  upon  a  people  determined  to 
achieve  their  independence,  this  war 
might  have  been  prevented. 

He  undoubtedly  realizes  his  error  now, 
but  his  pride  is  at  stake.  Cuba  is  all 
that  remains  to  Spain  of  an  empire  upon 
which  it  was  once  the  boast  that  the  sun 
never  set.  Spanish  statesmen  declared 
that  Cuba  must  be  conquered,  no  matter 
what  the  sacrifices  may  be.  It  will  be 
time  to  talk  of  needed  reform  after  the 
greater  Antille  has  been  brought  back 
into  the  national  fold.  There  is  a  ring 
of  fatalism  in  this  sentiment;  it  is  the 
cry  of  a  proud  but  desperate  warrior. 

The  modern  Spaniard  is  the  logical 
outcome  of  his  history.  He  is  proud, 
sentimental,  fanatical  even,  but  not  pro- 
gressive as  we  understand  progression. 
His  courtliness  is  admirable,  but  exces- 
sive. He  dwells  too  much  upon  the 
23 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

glories  of  Pavia  and  San  Quintin,  with- 
out realizing  that  those  very  victories 
hastened  the  downfall  of  Spanish  power. 
He  dreams  of  the  splendid  empire  which 
Columbus  and  his  successors  gave  to 
Castile  and  Leon;  but  he  forgets  that 
there  was  but  one  Las  Casas,  and  too 
many  of  the  stamp  of  Cortez  Pizarro,  and 
Ovando;  he  forgets  that  there  was  but 
one  Talavera,  Bishop  of  Granada,  and 
too  many  uncompromising  prelates  like 
Ximenes  and  Torquemada.  The  Span- 
iard's character  has  been  formed  by 
seven  centuries  of  crusading  and  a 
century  of  conquest.  The  exigencies  of 
history  have  made  him  a  warrior,  but 
the  incapacity  of  fourteen  bad  kings  has 
lost  him  the  power  to  conquer. 

Yet  in  spite  of  the  influence  of  past 
traditions  and  present  sentiment  the 
Spaniard  is  awakening.  Twenty  years 
have  wrought  marvelous  changes  in  the 
Peninsula,  and  though  the  spirit  of  the 
past  still  hovers  over  the  land, — the 
spirit  which  exiled  the  Jew  and  the 
24 


The  Spaniard 

Moor, — there  are  many  signs  which 
inspire  the  lover  of  Spain  with  the  hope 
that  under  a  more  democratic  rule  she 
may  find  the  dawn  of  a  new  civilization, 
where  victories  will  be  acquired  in  the 
realms  of  art,  science,  and  philosophy, 
instead  of  in  the  clash  of  arms. 


The   Capital   of  Spain 

SPAIN'S  capital  might  be  roughly 
described  as  a  composite  photo- 
graph of  Paris  and  Washington  with  two 
distinctive  features  of  its  own — the  Court 
and  the  Puerta  del  Sol.  There  is  noth- 
ing Spanish  about  Madrid  except  a  few 
Spaniards  lounging  in  the  sun  with 
shoulders  enveloped  in  the  national  capa, 
or  long,  graceful  cloak,  once  so  univer- 
sal but  now  fast  disappearing,  or  the 
devout  maidens  and  demure  duenas 
dressed  in  sombre  black,  their  glossy 
hair  wrapped  in  the  graceful  folds  of 
lace  mantillas,  picking  their  way  through 
the  crowded  streets  at  the  hour  of  morn- 
ing mass.  Except  for  these  and  an 
occasional  Spanish  cart  with  its  string 
of  awkward  mules,  there  is  little  to 
remind  one  of  romantic  Spain.  There 
26 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

are,  to  be  sure,  the  beggars,  but  the 
beggars  are  not  picturesque  like  those 
of  Andalusia;  they  are  merely  repulsive 
and  clamorous.  The  houses,  the  streets, 
the  life  of  Madrid,  are  essentially  Pari- 
sian on  a  somewhat  reduced  scale,  while 
the  general  aspect  of  the  city  is  that  of 
Washington. 

Like  Washington,  too,  it  is  a  capital 
of  deliberate  creation,  not  of  circum- 
stance, and  it  is  merely  a  capital. 
Although  in  the  number  of  its  inhabi- 
tants Madrid  is  the  largest  city  of  Spain, 
it  is  in  no  sense  the  commercial  metro- 
polis. Indeed,  without  the  Court,  the 
host  of  governmental  officials,  and  idle 
people  with  money  to  spend  whom  the 
Court  attracts,  it  could  not  exist  a  day. 
It  is  essentially  a  city  of  government  and 
pleasure,  and  the  business  is  mostly 
confined  to  purveying  to  the  wants  of  the 
functionary  and  the  frivolous. 

Asa  capital,  the  city  owes  its  existence 
to  the  vagaries  of  two  men.  Charles  V. 
found  that  the  dry  climate  agreed  with 
27 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

his  gout,  and  his  son,  Philip  II.,  could 
discover  no  more  dreary  spot  for  the 
building  of  his  monastic  palace,  the 
Escorial,  than  the  point  where  the  bar- 
ren wind-swept  plain  of  Madrid  verges 
into  the  bleak,  rugged  mountains  of  the 
Guadarrama.  So  the  cities  of  Toledo, 
Seville,  and  Valladolid,  naturally  fitted 
to  be  capitals  of  Spain,  were  deserted, 
and  the  new  city  sprang  into  being. 

To-day  this  brightest  and  gayest  of 
Spanish  towns  rises  crisp  and  new  in  the 
centre  of  a  plain  almost  as  barren  as  the 
great  American  desert.  The  sun  scorches 
in  summer,  the  wind  chills  in  winter,  yet 
for  three  centuries,  in  obedience  to  the 
whims  of  two  capricious  kings,  this  city 
has  grown  and  thriven  in  the  desolate 
centre  of  a  fertile  land. 

As  has  been  said,  the  distinctive 
features  of  Madrid  are  the  Court  and 
the  Puerta  del  Sol.  The  Court  is  indi- 
vidual, because  it  represents  the  last  of 
Bourbon  power  and  is  swayed  by  all  the 
Bourbon  etiquette  of  Louis  XIV.  The 
28 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

Puerta  del  Sol  is  the  centre  of  Madrid, 
— an  oval  plaza  whence  the  principal 
streets  radiate  in  all  directions, — a  sort 
of  Place  de  1' Opera  without  the  opera, 
but  with  more  life  and  movement,  for 
nowhere  do  idlers  congregate  as  they 
do  in  the  Puerta  del  Sol.  The  name 
signifies  "Gate  of  the  Sun."  There  is 
no  gate,  but  there  is  plenty  of  sun,  and 
that  is  the  secret  of  its  popularity  as  a 
lounging  place.  The  Spaniard  of  the 
middle  and  the  lower  classes  is  never  so 
happy  as  when  "tomando  el  sol,"  taking 
a  sun  bath.  It  is  indeed  a  necessity  to 
his  well-being  in  winter,  for  his  house 
is  so  damp  and  frigid,  with  no  appliance 
for  heating  except  the  miserable  charcoal 
brazier,  that  the  only  place  he  can  warm 
himself  is  in  the  sun.  In  fact,  the  sun  is 
called  the  poor  man's  brazier. 

Judging  by  the  crowds  which  swarm 
the  Puerta  del  Sol  and  the  adjoining 
streets,  the  population  of  Madrid  seems 
composed  principally  of  idlers.  This  in 
the  American  sense  is  partly  true.  The 
29 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

people  do  not  work  as  we  do.  The 
shops  are  opened  at  nine  or  even  ten 
o'clock.  The  government  offices  keep 
short  hours,  and  the  people  when  not  at 
work  are  always  in  the  streets,  standing 
in  groups  about  the  Puerta  del  Sol  or 
sauntering  leisurely  through  the  Alcala 
and  the  Carrera  San  Geronimo — the 
principal  shopping  streets. 

In  the  Anglo-Saxon  sense  of  the  word, 
the  Spaniard  never  walks  (except  in 
Barcelona  where  everyone  is  busy),  he 
merely  loiters,  and  it  is  amazing  to  see 
how  much  satisfaction  he  seems  to  find 
in  this  innocent  amusement. 

There  are  Anglomaniacs  in  the  smart 
society  of  Madrid,  as  there  are  wherever 
smart  society  exists,  and  they  wear  Lon- 
don clothes,  and  walk,  and  play  polo 
because  Englishmen  do,  but  they  are  no 
more  real  Spaniards  than  their  proto- 
types of  New  York  are  real  Americans. 
The  daily  life  of  the  "Madrilefto"  does 
not  begin  until  noon,  and  from  then  until 
the  early  morning  hours,  unless  he  is  one 

3° 


V5JK 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

of  the  unfortunates  whom  necessity 
drives  to  work,  he  is  ever  in  the  streets, 
the  cafe",  or  the  theatre.  Life  is  made 
cheap  enough  for  him,  too,  as  for  the 
price  of  a  cup  of  coffee  he  can  spend  half 
the  day  in  a  cafe,  and  the  theatres  — 
except  the  opera — are  so  moderate  in 
their  charges  that  one  wonders  how  they 
exist. 

The  theatres  of  Madrid  are  unique  in 
their  way.  You  do  not  buy  your  ticket 
for  an  entire  play  or  an  evening  but  for 
one  act  (or  function),  or  as  many  acts  or 
functions  as  you  desire  to  see.  Thus, 
to  go  at  the  beginning  and  sit  to  the 
bitter  end,  at  half  past  one  in  the  morn- 
ing, requires  a  handful  of  tickets,  from 
which  one  is  collected  at  the  beginning 
of  each  act. 

The  most  popular  playhouses  are  those 
where  they  give  Zarzuelas,  the  national 
opera  bouffe.  These  pieces  are  in  one 
act  or  in  two  short  acts  with  an  entr'acte, 
in  which  latter  case  an  intermezzo  is 
played  and  the  audience  retain  their 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

seats.  In  subjects  they  vary  from  the 
stately  court  of  Philip  II.  to  popular 
sketches  of  the  Edward  Harrigan  variety. 
The  music  is  usually  attractive,  the  book 
often  dull,  with  too  little  of  the  comedy 
element.  The  actors  are  not  up  to 
French  or  English  standards,  and  the 
actresses  are  sadly  deficient  in  the  mat- 
ter of  make-up,  a  commendable  habit 
enough  for  the  streets,  but  not  for  the 
boards,  where  they  all  look  like  corpses. 
At  a  Zarzuela  theatre  four  distinct 
pieces  are  usually  given  in  the  same  even- 
ing— the  house  being  the  most  crowded 
during  the  last.  No  country  is  richer  in 
dramatic  works  than  Spain.  It  has  a 
national  drama  which  is  truly  great,  but 
as  with  us  in  America,  the  drama  is  at 
a  rather  low  ebb  owing  to  the  frivolous 
taste  of  the  public.  The  Teatro  Espanol 
is  the  home  of  the  ligitimate  drama  and 
is  modeled  to  some  extent  after  the 
Theatre  Frangais,  and  there  one  evening 
a  week  is  devoted  to  the  old  dramatists; 
but  the  company  is  only  passable,  and 
32 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

little  attention  is  given  to  the  mise-en- 
scene.  The  theatre  itself  is  charming, 
and  on  Monday,  the  fashionable  night, 
society  is  always  present  in  force. 

One  of  the  many  charms  of  Madrid  is 
its  compactness.  You  can  drive  from 
one  end  to  the  other  in  half  an  hour; 
the  streets  in  the  main  are  broad,  ex- 
cept in  the  old  parts  where  there  is  still 
a  dash  of  local  color  in  the  shape  of 
tortuous  lanes  and  hanging  balconies; 
but  the  greater  part  of  the  town  is  new 
and  French,  with  straight  boulevards 
well-built  houses,  modern  and  monoton- 
ous. 

The  government  buildings  are  situated 
here  and  there  as  they  are  in  Washing- 
ton— huge  modern  piles  of  brick  and 
stone  with  pseudo-classical  outlines, 
commonplace  most  of  them,  in  contrast 
with  the  noble  monuments  of  the  older 
Spanish  cities.  The  Senate  Chamber  is 
an  old  monastery  rebuilt  and  modernized 
since  1835,  but  so  completely  transformed 
that  one  looks  in  vain  for  signs  of  the 
33 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

former  cloister.  The  hall  is  small  but 
comfortable,  and  reminds  one  somewhat 
of  the  Supreme  Court  Chamber  at 
Washington.  There  are  several  modern 
paintings  of  historical  subjects  scattered 
through  the  buildings,  and  surrounding 
the  hall  is  a  series  of  bright  and  cozy 
committee  rooms. 

It  is  the  irony  of  fate  to  find  the  mod- 
ern Spanish  Senate  domiciled  in  the 
former  house  of  Augustinian  friars. 
Spain  has  changed  since  the  days  of  the 
Inquisition,  though  one  doubts  whether 
the  fact  is  recognized  in  America. 
Motley  and  Prescott  wrote  of  a  period 
covering  nearly  a  century  of  Spanish 
greatness  and  Spanish  cruelty;  and  the 
Spain  of  to-day  is  judged  in  America  by 
that  period,  but  the  judges  forget  that 
the  contemporaneous  sovereigns  in  Eng- 
land were  Henry  VIII.,  Bloody  Mary, 
and  Elizabeth,  with  whom  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,  Charles  V.,  and  even  Philip 
II.,  do  not  lose  entirely  by  comparison, 
judged  from  the  standpoint  of  cruelty. 
34 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

But  that  is  a  digression,  and  there  are 
features  of  the  Spanish  Senate  worthy 
of  notice,  as  it  is  a  happy  compromise 
between  the  English,  French  and  Ameri- 
can upper  houses.  The  senators  are  of 
three  classes:  grandees  with  an  annual 
rental  from  land  of  $10,000,  sitting  by 
right  of  inheritance;  senators  for  life 
appointed  by  the  crown,  and  lastly, 
senators  elected  by  the  Church,  the  royal 
academies,  the  universities,  and  each 
province,  for  the  term  of  the  Parliament. 
The  two  former  classes  make  up  one  half 
of  the  House,  and  the  elected  senators 
the  remainder.  The  total  number  of 
senators  is  three  hundred  and  seventy- 
two.  The  House  of  Deputies — Con- 
greso  de  los  Diputados — is  in  a  modern 
building  begun  in  1843,  during  the  reign 
of  Isabel  II.  Like  the  senate,  it  is  taste- 
fully furnished.  The  facade  has  a  clas- 
sical portico,  and  the  general  outline  is 
much  like  the  White  House  in  Washing- 
ton. There  are  four  hundred  and  fifty 
deputies,  representing  the  forty-nine  pro- 
35 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

vinces  of  Spain,  Cuba,  Puerto  Rico. 
The  Cuban  delegation  consists  of  thirty 
representatives,  while  Puerto  Rico  has 
sixteen,  which  is  the  proportion  its 
population  bears  to  that  of  the  Peninsula. 
One  curious  fact  in  relation  to  the  present 
Cortez  is,  that  while  the  president  of 
the  upper  house  is  untitled,  the  speaker 
of  the  Chamber,  the  Marquis  de  la  Vega 
de  Armijo,  is  a  grandee  with  several 
titles  dating  back  to  1679.  The  latter 
prefers  the  more  active  field  of  the  lower 
house  to  the  Senate,  a  seat  in  which  he 
is  entitled  to  by  birth. 

Among  the  other  public  buildings  are 
the  offices  of  the  nine  different  ministries 
into  which  the  government  is  divided, 
most  of  them  imposing  enough  but 
modern  and  uninteresting.  Apropos 
of  the  ministry  of  war,  and  in  view  of 
the  numerous  generals  one  reads  of  in 
connection  with  the  Cuban  war,  it  is 
amusing  to  note  that  while  the  peace 
footing  of  the  Spanish  army  is  about 
one  hundred  thousand  men,  there  are 
36 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

on  the  active  list  six  captain-generals, 
thirty-nine  lieutenant-generals,  sixty 
generals  of  division,  and  one  hundred 
and  sixty  brigadier-generals,  making  an 
average  of  one  general  to  every  three 
hundred  and  seventy  soldiers.  No 
wonder  the  Spanish  arms  have  not  yet 
proved  successful.  This  preponderance 
of  generals  is  due  in  part  to  the  fact  that 
in  making  peace  with  the  Carlists  the 
officers  of  the  Carlist  army  were  taken 
into  the  official  fold  and  given  their 
relative  rank  in  the  regular  establish- 
ment. But  the  curse  of  Spain  is  official- 
dom. If  two-thirds  of  the  governmental 
positions  could  be  done  away  with, 
Spain  might  to-day  be  prosperous.  But 
the  moment  a  butcher,  baker,  or  candle- 
stick-maker acquires  a  competence,  his 
son  must  be  in  the  government  service, 
in  order  that  he  may  be  a  gentleman. 

In  talking  of  the  government  one  is  in 
danger  of  forgetting  the  sights  of  Mad- 
rid: the  museums,  the  picture  gallery, 
the  royal  armory,  the  palace,  the  royal 
37 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

stables,  the  churches,  libraries,  hospitals, 
and  the  hundred  and  one  institutions 
which  go  to  make  up  a  European  capital. 
Madrid  has  them  all  in  abundance,  and 
the  tourist  sees  them  in  the  hurried 
manner  of  the  tourist.  A  description  of 
such  sights  falls  more  within  the  pro- 
vince of  a  guide-book  than  this  book  of 
sketches,  and  after  the  last  word  has 
been  written,  the  sights  must  still  be 
seen  to  be  appreciated.  What  descrip- 
tion could  do  justice  to  the  royal  picture 
gallery  in  the  Prado?  One  can  say  that 
this  collection  is  considered  the  finest  in 
the  world,  but  that  it  is  rather  a  collection 
of  splendid  gems  than  a  complete  chrono- 
logical series  of  schools.  One  can  say 
that  there  are  sixty-two  Rubens,  fifty- 
three  Teniers,  ten  Raphaels,  forty-six 
Murillos,  sixty-four  Velasquez,  twenty- 
two  Vandykes,  forty-three  Titians, 
thirty-four  Tintorettos,  twenty-five  Ve- 
roneses,  fifty-eight  Riberas,  and  ten 
Claudes  hanging  on  the  walls  of  that 
gallery,  not  to  mention  the  Wouver- 
38 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

mans,  the  Snyders,  the  Goyas,  etc. ;  but 
when  it  has  been  said,  what  idea  does 
it  convey  of  that  marvelous  collection 
of  paintings? 

A  week,  a  month,  a  year  would  be  too 
short  a  time  to  study  the  gallery  of 
the  Prado,  and  yet  the  passing  tourist 
rushes  through  its  halls  in  a  morning,  or 
at  most,  in  a  day. 

The  royal  armory,  too,  contains  a 
unique  collection  of  arms  and  armor. 
The  nucleus  was  collected  by  Charles 
V.  and  has  been  added  to  since.  The 
French  have  pilfered  it  as  they  have 
everything  else  in  Spain  on  which  they 
could  lay  their  hands,  and  it  has  suf- 
fered from  fire,  but  in  spite  of  all,  the 
collection  is  still  probably  the  finest  in 
the  world. 

Yet  after  all  has  been  said  the  real 
sights  of  Madrid  are  not  many.  The 
Cook's  tourist  does  them  all  in  three 
days.  Madrid  is  essentially  a  social 
city,  and  it  is  the  people  that  attract 
one  most.  But  not  the  common  people 
39 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

as  in  the  provinces;  for  in  this  sense 
there  is  little  of  the  national  life  to  be 
seen.  The  common  people  are  merely 
the  shop-keepers  and  workmen — bour- 
geois and  ouvriers,  as  they  are  the  world 
over.  It  is  in  the  social  life  of  Madrid 
that  one  finds  much  that  is  interesting. 
One  meets  there  the  governing  classes 
of  the  country — the  people  who  stand 
for  Spain  before  the  world.  Madrid  is 
so  out  of  the  beaten  track  that  its 
society  has  not  been  flooded  with  for- 
eigners. Strangers  are  somewhat  of  a 
rarity,  and  are  looked  on  askance. 

The  Spaniard  is  reserved,  and  unlike 
the  American  does  not  throw  open  his 
arms  to  the  foreign  Tom,  Dick  and 
Harry.  Even  the  diplomats  are  not 
social  idols  in  Madrid  as  they  are  in 
Washington  and  Newport,  and  but  a 
limited  few  are  received  into  the  inner 
circle  of  the  smart  set.  But  if  the 
Spaniard  knows  you,  and  is  assured  that 
you  are  a  reputable  member  of  society, 
and  above  all,  if  he  likes  you,  he  will 
40 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

become  the  most  charming  of  hosts,  the 
best  of  friends.  One  has  known  many 
foreigners  but  none  whose  friendship  is 
so  warm  and  sincere  as  that  of  the 
well-bred  Spaniards.  But  of  well-bred 
Spaniards,  as  of  well-bred  people  of 
every  country,  there  is  only  a  limited 
number.  They  are  not  all  in  the  smart 
set,  however,  for  a  veneer  of  manners 
and  mannerisms  does  not  always  make 
a  true  man.  The  smart  set  of  Madrid 
is  but  a  reproduction  of  the  smart  set 
of  New  York  on  a  somewhat  smaller 
scale.  There  are  the  same  "dudes" 
dressed  in  London  clothes  lounging  in 
the  clubs,  and  the  same  silly  women 
craving  admiration  and  thirsting  for 
excitement,  the  same  heart-burnings,  the 
same  scandals,  the  same  assumption  of 
superiority  to  the  rest  of  mankind,  the 
same  frittering  away  of  time  and  money, 
with  the  sole  difference  that  the  people 
are  talking  pure  Spanish  instead  of  imi- 
tation English.  That  is,  most  of  them 
are  talking  pure  Spanish;  but  even  in 

4* 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Madrid  one  or  two  of  the  smartest  of  the 
smart  go  to  the  extent  of  speaking 
Spanish  with  an  English  accent.  Anglo- 
mania is  not  confined  to  Manhattan 
Island.  The  people  of  this  smart  set  are 
extremely  intimate  and  clannish,  but  on 
the  whole  they  are  preferable  to  those 
at  home,  for  there  is  much  more  basis 
for  their  pretention  and  much  less  pre- 
sumption in  their  manner. 

Spaniards  do  not  eat  and  drink  as 
much  as  Anglo-Saxons  and  this  is  a  point 
in  their  favor.  Dinners  are  not  as  fre- 
quent as  with  us  except  at  the  foreign 
embassies,  and  those  that  are  given  are 
rather  informal,  and  among  intimate 
friends,  and  the  diplomats  complain 
bitterly  of  this  as  a  lack  of  hospitality. 
There  are  of  course  some  houses  where 
you  dine,  as  you  would  in  London,  but 
as  a  general  rule  the  Spaniard  is  not 
given  to  table  hospitality.  He  has  his 
carriage,  his  box  at  the  opera,  his  palace 
always  with  an  imposing  staircase — but 
last  of  all  a  French  cook.  To  show 
42 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

what  a  small  part  eating  plays  in  the  life 
of  the  Spaniard,  it  is  only  necessary  to 
state  that  Madrid  does  not  possess  a 
single  restaurant  up  to  the  French  or 
American  standard.  Even  at  balls  and 
receptions,  the  refreshments  are  usually 
of  a  meagre  nature:  some  cakes,  some 
lemonade,  probably  a  decanter  or  so  of 
sherry;  but  a  hot  supper  served  in  courses 
and  with  unlimited  champagne,  would 
not  appeal  to  the  Spaniards,  and  the 
diplomats  are  left  to  mourn  its  absence, 
except  when  an  embassy  entertains. 
How  the  Anglo-Saxon  overfeeds!  It  is 
a  pity  this  simplicity  could  not  be 
adopted  elsewhere.  However,  one  must 
confess  that  simplicity  in  the  manner  of 
Spanish  eating  is  not  universal. 

No  Spaniard  is  more  widely  known 
than  Don  Emilio  Castelar,  late  president 
of  the  short-lived  Spanish  Republic,  the 
most  famous  of  Spanish  contemporary 
writers,  the  most  sincere  of  her  states- 
men; for,  regardless  of  personal  conse- 
quences, he  has  ever  maintained  a  con- 
43 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

sistent  course,  upholding  the  principles 
he  deems  to  be  right  even  to  the  extent 
of  alienating  himself  from  the  Republican 
party  of  his  own  creation,  when  that 
party  began  to  verge  toward  socialism. 
He  is  a  Spaniard  first,  last,  and  always, 
and  he  lives  as  a  Spaniard,  in  a  modest 
bachelor  apartment,  surrounded  by  rare 
art  objects  and  the  books  of  his  choice. 
Being  a  Republican  he  has  never  put  foot 
inside  the  palace,  yet  he  has  accepted  the 
monarchy  as  for  the  best  interests  of 
Spain,  but  only  because  the  monarchy 
has  accepted  religious  and  political  lib- 
erty, the  principles  for  which  he  has 
always  struggled.  Don  Emilio's  pride 
is  his  cuisine,  but  even  here  his  patriot- 
ism reigns  as  in  everything.  His  cook  is 
Spanish,  every  dish  which  finds  its  way 
to  his  table  is  Spanish,  and  his  wines  are 
of  the  choicest  Spanish  vintages.  One 
recalls  a  luncheon  at  his  hospitable 
board,  which  was  certainly  not  open  to 
the  charge  of  scantiness.  Seventeen 
dishes,  all  Spanish,  washed  down  with 
44 


DON    EMILIO     CASTELAR 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

the  choicest  of  the  Peninsula's  wines. 
One  cannot  begin  to  remember  the 
sequence  of  these  viands,  but  all  were 
unique  and  each  had  a  flavor  which  was 
truly  of  the  country.  And  what  a 
charming  host !  How  earnestly  he  talked, 
his  words  flowing  with  the  rhythm  of  the 
born  orator  in  the  most  sonorous  of  Cas- 
tillian.  He  spoke  with  bitterness  of  the 
American  attitude  toward  Cuba — his 
face  coloring  with  indignation,  his  words 
emphasized  with  impatient  gestures. 
"How  is  it  possible,"  he  asked,  "that 
the  United  States  can  be  so  ungrateful  to 
the  land  which  gave  it  birth?  Spain  is  the 
mother  of  America,  and  this  is  the  base 
ingratitude  of  her  child.  You  do  not 
know  us  there.  We  have  more  liberty 
than  England.  What  did  we  do  in  Spain 
at  the  time  of  the  Republic?  We  de- 
clared universal  suffrage,  religious  and 
political  freedom,  and  manumitted  the 
slaves  of  Cuba.  All  these  blessings  and 
more  remain  to  us.  It  is  a  shame,  a 
slander,  that  the  people  of  America 
45 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

should  call  us  cruel  and  unenlightened. 
Spain  will  fight  for  Cuba  until  the  last 
drop  of  her  blood  is  spilt;  her  honor 
demands  it. "  He  talked  so  fast  and  so 
earnestly  that  one  could  scarcely  follow 
him,  but  his  heart  was  in  his  words.  It 
was  a  patriot  speaking,  a  man  whose  soul 
was  in  his  country. 

But  all  the  public  men  of  Spain  have  a 
charming  manner  which  some  of  our  own 
politicians  would  do  well  to  cultivate. 
Spaniards  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest 
are  invariably  gracious.  Some  of  the 
Spanish  leaders,  however,  affect  a  certain 
Jeffersonian  simplicity  which  seems 
familiar.  Don  Praxedes  Sagasta,  for 
instance,  the  leader  of  the  Liberal  party, 
several  times  premier,  Knight  of  the 
Golden  Fleece,  and  one  of  the  great  men 
of  Spain,  lives  most  modestly  in  a  second- 
floor  apartment  in  the  Carrera  San  Gero- 
nimo.  Calling  one  afternoon  with  a 
friend,  we  found  him  in  a  conference 
with  some  of  his  political  lieutenants. 
The  impression  he  produces  is  that  of  a 
46 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

strong  man  who  thoroughly  understands 
the  game  of  politics.  The  lines  of  his 
face  are  deep  and  well  denned;  he  has 
thick,  determined  lips,  and  his  shaggy 
gray  hair  and  beard  are  almost  Ibsen- 
esque.  Rather  careless  in  the  matter  of 
dress,  and  decidedly  democratic  in  his 
surroundings,  he  has  all  the  politeness  of 
the  true  Spaniard.  His  manner  of 
speaking  is  quiet  and  precise,  and  he 
seems  to  have  the  same  wonderful 
knowledge  of  men  and  their  ways  which 
characterized  the  late  Mr.  Elaine.  Senor 
Sagasta  is  an  adroit  political  leader  with 
a  strong  following  and  one  felt,  in 
talking  with  him,  the  forcible  charm  of 
the  successful  man  of  state.  He  was 
more  guarded,  too,  than  Castelar,  and 
seemed  less  guided  by  sentiment;  in 
short,  more  cautious. 

Senor  Canovas,  the  present  prime 
minister,  has  been  so  much  before  the 
American  public  of  late  that  he  needs  no 
mention.  His  clear  statement  of  Spain's 
attitude  in  the  Cuban  difficulty,  and  his 
47 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

earnest  but  dignified  efforts  to  avert 
hostilities  should  recommend  him  to  all 
Americans  but  jingoes.  But  the  states- 
man who  seems  to  have  the  most 
thorough  knowledge  of  the  politics  of 
the  world  is  Senor  Moret  y  Prendergast, 
deputy  for  Zaragoza,  and  minister  of 
foreign  affairs  in  the  late  Liberal  cabi- 
net, a  distinguished  writer  and  an  orator 
of  rare  ability.  He  speaks  English 
fluently,  and  understands  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  character  thoroughly,  even  to  a 
keen  appreciation  of  the  jokes  in 
"Puck."  Senor  Moret  is  president  of 
the  Athenaeum,  a  literary  and  artistic 
club  of  seven  hundred  members,  owning 
an  imposing  building  supplied  with  a 
capital  library  and  a  large  conference 
hall,  where  from  time  to  time  distin- 
guished speakers  address  the  members 
on  political  and  literary  subjects.  On 
the  evening  we  visited  the  Athenaeum, 
Sefior  Silvela  delivered  an  address  on 
parliamentary  government.  This  speaker 
is  one  of  the  famous  men  of  Spain — law- 
48 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

yer,  writer  and  statesman ;  a  conservative, 
but  one  who  is  not  at  present  in  sym- 
pathy with  his  party  leader.  His  de- 
livery was  charming.  He  spoke  for 
one  hour  without  a  single  note,  each 
sentence  perfectly  rounded,  each  word 
distinctly  pronounced,  and  all  accen- 
tuated with  easy,  graceful  gestures.  His 
manner  in  conversation  was  so  cordial 
and  simple,  and  he  seemed  so  pleased 
with  our  expressions  of  appreciation, 
that  even  in  a  few  moments'  chat  he 
gave  the  impression  of  being  what  the 
Spaniards  call  "muy  simpatico. " 

But  it  is  impossible  within  the  limits 
of  this  chapter  to  speak  of  the  many 
interesting  people  you  meet  during  a 
visit  to  Madrid.  There  is  a  group  of 
Spanish  writers,  represented  by  Eche- 
garay,  the  Spanish  Ibsen,  and  Perez 
Galdos,  the  novelist.  They  mix  but 
little  with  the  social  world;  but  Don 
Juan  Valera,  the  author  of  such  charm- 
ing stories  as  "Pepita  Ximenez,"  and 
"Dona  Luz, "  is  to  be  met  occasionally 
49 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

at  the  foreign  embassies,  for  besides 
being  distinguished  as  a  novelist  and 
historian,  he  has  had  a  successful 
diplomatic  career.  Seflor  Valera,  in  his 
own  study  surrounded  by  his  books, 
seems  the  perfect  type  of  the  man  of 
letters.  He  has  a  keen  interest  in  the 
work  of  American  writers,  as  he  was  at 
one  time  minister  at  Washington.  He 
speaks  English  but  little,  yet  his  knowl- 
edge of  our  literature  is  very  extended. 
Progressive  womanhood,  too,  has  its 
representative  in  Senora  Emilia  Pardo 
Bazdn,  a  clever  and  prolific  novelist  of 
the  French  school,  whose  works  have 
been  translated  into  English,  and  who 
has  a  distinct  place  in  Spanish  contem- 
poraneous literature.  She  stands  some- 
what alone,  however,  as  the  new  woman 
has  not  found  her  way  to  Spain,  and 
Spanish  women  are  content  to  remain 
in  the  useful  sphere  for  which  nature  cre- 
ated them.  The  life  of  Madrid,  how- 
ever, centres  in  the  Court.  Men  of  let- 
ters are  merely  a  side  issue. 
50 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

Spain  has  been  cursed  by  generations 
of  bad  kings  and  queens,  each  adding  to 
the  ruin  of  the  country ;  but  at  last  the 
Peninsula  has  a  ruler  who  commands 
admiration  and  respect.  Her  Majesty 
Queen  Maria  Christina,  the  regent,  is  a 
true  woman,  dignified  and  tactful,  and 
when  one  is  presented  to  her  he  feels  the 
force  of  the  word  queenly,  that  being 
exactly  the  word  which  describes  her  in 
manner,  in  figure,  and  in  bearing. 

At  the  private  audiences  occasionally 
granted  at  the  request  of  an  ambassador 
or  minister,  after  passing  through  the 
antechamber  and  the  chamber,  you  are 
ushered  into  the  royal  presence  by  the 
introducer  of  ambassadors.  The  queen 
receives  you  in  a  small  room  not  unlike 
the  reception-room  of  an  American 
house.  Except  for  the  bowing  low  and 
backing  out  of  the  royal  presence  every- 
thing is  most  informal.  You  are  invited 
to  sit  down,  and  permitted  an  interview 
of  a  few  minutes.  Her  Majesty  asks 
questions  about  various  topics  she  thinks 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

of  interest,  and  then  to  signify  that  the 
audience  is  over,  she  rises  and  you  retire, 
with  numerous  low  bows,  careful  that 
your  back  is  ever  toward  the  door. 
Then  the  dapper  little  introducer  of  am- 
bassadors, radiant  in  blue  and  gold,  silk 
stockings  and  breeches,  takes  -  you 
through  a  series  of  gorgeous  rooms, 
where  the  walls  are  resplendent  with 
tapestries  and  the  portraits  of  Bourbons, 
to  the  apartments  of  the  Infanta  Isabel. 
This  princess  is  the  elder  sister  of  the 
Infanta  Eulalia  whose  name  is  so  famil- 
iar to  Americans.  The  latter  of  recent 
years  has  passed  little  of  her  time  in 
Madrid,  or  even  in  Spain,  so  her  elder 
sister  is  perhaps  the  most  popular  of 
Spanish  royalties,  because  she  is  not  only 
Spanish  in  her  tastes,  but  has  the  mar- 
velous faculty  of  never  forgetting  a 
face.  Those  whom  the  Infanta  Isabel 
has  once  met  she  never  forgets,  and  in 
the  park,  the  opera,  or  wherever  it  is,  if 
she  sees  you  she  greets  you  with  a  charm- 
ing bow  which  makes  one  feel  that  he 
52 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

has  a  recognized  place  in  her  memory. 
She  is  a  thorough  sportswoman,  too, 
inured  to  the  saddle,  and  in  the  moun- 
tains around  La  Granja,  where  she 
passes  the  summer,  often  rides  so  hard 
that  her  suite  are  tempted  to  cry  mercy. 
The  Infanta  Isabel  receives  in  the  same 
informal  manner  as  the  queen,  but  one 
feels  perhaps  a  little  more  like  talking 
freely  here  than  in  the  more  constrain- 
ing presence  of  the  regent. 

Yet  all  the  ceremonies  of  the  Spanish 
court  are  not  so  simple.  On  the  gala 
days,  such  as  the  Day  of  His  Majesty, 
the  twenty-third  of  January,  the  queen 
holds  a  levee,  with  all  the  ceremony  the 
most  exacting  could  demand.  The  pal- 
ace of  Madrid  is  one  of  the  most  magnifi- 
cent in  the  world,  and  is  in  every  sense 
a  royal  residence.  It  was  built  by  Philip 
V.  after  the  burning  of  the  old  Alcazar 
in  1734,  with  the  intention  of  rivalling 
Versailles.  How  well  this  attempt  suc- 
ceeded may  be  judged  by  Napoleon's 
remarking  to  his  brother  Joseph,  as  the 
53 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

two  Corsican  usurpers  mounted  the 
grand  staircase  for  the  first  time:  ''Vous 
serez  mieux  loge"s  que  moi. "  That  lodg- 
ing was  but  temporary  and  never  se- 
cure, for  the  Spaniard  is  not  an  easy 
creature,  even  for  a  Napoleon,  to  trample 
on.  No  more  imposing  sight  could  be 
imagined  than  that  grand  staircase  on  a 
gala  day,  when  it  is  lined  with  a  double 
row  of  halberdiers  in  their  Louis  XIV. 
uniforms,  and  the  great  dignitaries  of 
the  country  are  ascending  the  steps, 
gorgeous  in  red  and  blue  and  gold  and 
waving  plumes,  their  breasts  weighted 
with  the  glittering  baubles  foreigners 
love  so  well.  But  the  deputations  from 
the  senate  and  the  house,  each  preceded 
by  four  mace-bearers,  form  a  strange 
contrast  in  their  evening  dress,  to  the 
glittering  officials  of  the  royal  household, 
and  it  is  amusing  to  watch  the  swagger- 
ing, democratic  air  of  some  of  the  depu- 
ties of  the  Left,  as  they  stride  up  the 
stairs  with  a  boorish  attempt  to  show 
their  contempt  for  royalty.  It  is  cus- 
54 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

tomary  to  uncover  at  the  first  landing  of 
the  stairs,  but  these  deputies  of  demo- 
cratic tendencies  swagger  up  to  the  door 
of  the  throne-room  itself  with  their  hats 
on  the  back  of  their  heads,  in  a  manner 
which  would  do  credit  to  a  Tammany 
politician.  And  this  is  courtly  Spain. 
The  government  and  the  different  em- 
bassies and  legations  enter  before  the 
others  and  take  their  places  in  the 
throne-room.  Following  come  the  pro- 
vincial deputations:  Ayuntamiento,  the 
clergy,  the  Consejo  de  Estado, — or 
supreme  court, — the  Maestranzas,  mili- 
tary orders,  the  officers  of  the  army 
and  navy,  and  everyone  who  has  an 
official  position  at  court.  It  is  a  brilliant 
kaleidoscope  of  gorgeousness  long  to  be 
remembered. 

The  damas  and  gentiles  hombres,  or 
ladies  and  gentlemen  in  waiting,  await 
the  queen  in  the  Ante-"Camara. "  The 
Infanta  Isabel  comes  from  her  rooms  to 
the  "Camara,"  as  do  the  other  members 
of  the  royal  family  who  are  in  Madrid. 
55 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Then  the  queen  and  the  little  king  appear, 
and  the  court  makes  obeisance.  The 
cortege  is  formed,  the  gentil  hombre  de 
servicio,  the  guard  of  halberdiers,  the 
mayor  domo  de  semana,  the  grandees,  the 
king  and  queen,  the  Infanta  Isabel,  and 
the  damas,  and  then  the  whole  procession 
proceeds  to  the  throne-room.  There  the 
little  king,  dressed  on  this  particular 
occasion  in  the  uniform  of  a  private  sol- 
dier with  the  collar  of  the  Golden  Fleece, 
to  do  honor  to  the  army,  sits  on  the 
right,  the  queen  regent  on  his  left. 
Standing  on  the  dais  of  the  throne,  but 
behind,  are  the  jefe  superior  del  palacio, 
the  mayor  domo  mayor,  and  the  gentil 
hombre  de  servicio.  Opposite  the  throne 
are  the  government  and  diplomatic 
corps,  to  the  right  the  grandees,  headed 
by  the  Duke  of  Sessa,  to  the  left  the 
damas,  but  the  wives  of  the  diplomats 
are  gathered  in  an  anteroom.  When  all 
are  in  their  places,  the  deputation  of  the 
senate  enters,  and  the  president  makes 
an  address,  to  which  the  queen  replies. 
56 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

The  delegation  of  the  deputies  do  the 
same,  and  then  all  the  various  bodies  we 
have  seen  coming  up  the  stairs  file 
through  and  make  obeisance. 

When  all  have  passed,  the  cortege  is 
formed  as  before,  and  the  queen  enters 
the  Ante-Camara  to  greet  the  ladies  of 
the  diplomatic  corps.  They  are  stand- 
ing in  two  lines,  and  the  queen  passes 
slowly  by  while  they  curtesy.  She  stops 
occasionally  to  speak  to  those  she  wishes 
particularly  to  favor.  Then,  when  that 
ceremony  is  over,  she  passes  on  into  the 
Camara  and  receives  the  private  house- 
hold which  means  the  ladies'  maids, 
the  jefe  de  alabarderos,  and  the  Mon- 
teros  de  Espinosas,  a  privileged  corps 
who  have  the  special  duty  of  guarding 
the  king  while  he  sleeps.  They  all  kiss 
her  hand,  and  she  then  retires  for  a  short 
rest  before  the  state  banquet. 

None  but  the  ministry,  the  grandees, 

the  gentiles  hombres,  the  Knights  of  the 

Golden    Fleece,    the   president    of    the 

Consejo   de   Estado,   the   presidents  of 

57 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

the  two  chambers,  the  governor  of  the 
province,  the  alcaide  of  Madrid,  the  arch- 
bishop of  Toledo,  the  archbishop  of  Ma- 
drid, and  the  wives  of  these  dignitaries, 
are  bidden  to  this  feast.  Formerly  the 
foreign  ambassadors  and  ministers  were 
invited,  but  they  have  quarreled  with  the 
grandees  about  precedence,  and  now 
they  are  invited  to  a  separate  banquet 
held  in  their  honor.  The  scene,  judging 
by  a  view  obtained  of  the  banquet  hall  a 
few  moments  before  the  arrival  of  the 
guests,  must  be  of  unusual  brilliance. 
The  room  was  ablaze  with  the  light  of 
six  crystal  chandeliers  and  a  hundred 
silver  candelabra.  There  was  a  profu- 
sion of  orchids  and  violets  and  lilies  of 
the  valley,  and  garlands  of  pink  and  yel- 
low roses;  there  were  ferns  and  plants, 
and  glass  and  plate  in  dazzling  array. 
The  ceiling  glistened  with  white  and 
gold,  the  walls  were  hung  with  tapes- 
tries, an  army  of  powdered  flunkeys  with 
coats  of  blue  and  gold  and  stockings  of 
crimson  silk,  awaited  the  coming  of  the 
58 


The  Capital  of  Spain 

guests,  and  strangest  of  all,  two  tooth- 
picks were  arranged  at  each  place,  for 
the  Spaniard  must  pick  his  teeth,  even  in 
the  presence  of  his  sovereign. 

On  that  night  a  double  row  of  ser- 
vants lined  the  grand  stairs,  and  halber- 
diers pounded  the  staffs  of  their  halberds 
on  the  stone  floor  as  each  grandee  of 
Spain  passed  up.  One  viewed  it  all 
from  a  neighboring  balcony,  the  glitter- 
ing uniforms,  the  tinsel  and  the  pomp, 
and  thought  of  another  event  of  which 
those  stairs  had  been  the  scene.  It  was 
in  the  early  years  of  the  troublous  reign 
of  Queen  Isabel  II.  Two  generals, 
Diego  Leon,  and  Concha  instigated  by 
Queen  Christina,  had  concerted  a  plot 
to  carry  off  the  young  sovereign.  Con- 
cha presented  himself  at  the  palace  and 
gained  an  entrance  for  himself  and  a 
troop  of  soldiers  by  the  connivance  of  an 
officer  of  the  outer  guard  who  was  in  the 
plot.  There  were  but  eighteen  halberd- 
iers on  guard,  but  under  their  leader 
Don  Domingo  Dulce,  they  advanced  and 
59 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

tried  to  parley.  They  were  answered  by 
bullets.  A  struggle  ensued,  the  halberd- 
iers fighting  on  the  stairs  held  their 
ground.  Concha  was  repulsed.  Leon 
arrived  too  late.  The  conspirators  fled; 
but  Leon  was  captured  and  shot  for  his 
treachery.  He  was  young  and  hand- 
some, and  the  queen  who  heard  it  all 
too  late  to  stay  the  execution,  has  ever 
kept  his  cross  of  Saint  Hermergildo 
pierced  by  three  bullets.  It  was  but  one 
of  the  many  romances  of  her  romantic 
life.  The  times  have  changed,  but  who 
can  tell  how  soon  those  palace  stairs 
may  again  run  red  with  blood?  The 
times  have  changed,  but  as  long  as 
there  are  kings  and  queens  there  must 
be  palace  plots  and  intrigues. 


Spanish    Society.. 

OPANIARDS  are  probably  less  under- 
V.3  stood  in  America  than  any  people 
of  Europe.  In  fact,  the  popular  concep- 
tion of  the  Spaniard  is  of  a  sinister 
scoundrel  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  who 
smokes  cigarettes  and  commits  dark 
deeds — a  sort  of  comic  opera  villain 
whose  passion  is  cruelty.  This  absurd- 
ity is  fully  equalled  by  the  Spanish  im- 
pression of  Americans — or  "Los  Yan- 
kees,"— as  they  call  us.  They  look 
npon  us  as  a  species  of  plutocratic  bar- 
barians, whose  sole  merit  lies  in  our  dol- 
lars, whose  manners  are  boorish,  and 
whose  government  is  the  most  corrupt 
and  most  overbearing  in  the  world.  It 
is  not  always  pleasant  to  see  ourselves  as 
others  see  us,  and  when  one  reads  in 
Spanish  papers  that  the  United  States 
61 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

is  a  country  without  principle  or  relig- 
ion, without  manliness  or  bravery,  where 
negroes  are  roasted  alive  and  Italians 
lynched  in  the  public  streets,  where 
Chinamen  are  persecuted  and  strikes  are 
prevalent,  where  anarchists  are  govern- 
ors of  states,  and  personal  liberty  is 
unknown,  one  resents  the  tirade  and 
feels  the  jingo  spirit  surging  in  one's 
heart. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  Spanish  con- 
ception of  the  American  is  merely  an  ex- 
aggeration of  the  national  faults;  just 
as  our  idea  of  the  Spaniard  is  a  miscon- 
ception of  his  character  formed  by  mag- 
nifying his  vices  at  the  expense  of  his 
virtues.  Human  nature  is  much  the 
same  the  world  over,  and  the  Spaniard  is 
very  much  like  other  men,  save  that  he 
is  down  on  his  luck.  Like  most  people 
who  have  known  prosperity,  he  finds  it 
difficult  to  appreciate  his  circumscribed 
position,  and  is  wont  to  survey  himself 
from  the  magnificent  standpoint  of  his 
former  achievements. 
62 


Spanish  Society 

The  most  pitiful  person  in  the  world, 
the  one  who  most  excites  our  sympa- 
thies, is  the  poor  but  proud  aristocrat, 
the  decayed  gentleman  who  has  seen 
better  days,  and  having  fallen  dwells  on 
the  glories  of  his  past  instead  of  strug- 
gling to  rise  again.  Spain  is  a  nation  of 
poor  but  proud  aristocrats,  and  its  gov- 
ernment, like  its  people,  has  been  strug- 
gling for  years  to  keep  up  appearances, 
and  retain  the  haughty  position  it  once 
held  in  the  society  of  nations.  To  retain 
its  prominence  it  has  been  living  beyond 
its  means,  and  as  in  the  case  of  many  a 
patrician  who  has  struggled  to  the  same 
end,  bankruptcy  and  ruin  are  the  result. 

If  the  Spaniards  had  had  the  moral 
courage  to  retire  quietly  from  the  "smart 
society"  of  nations  and  live  within  their 
means,  they  might  long  since  have  been 
able  to  regain  the  prominence  they 
covet.  But  nations,  like  individuals,  do 
not  foresee  disaster  in  time ;  they  are  car- 
ried on  in  the  feverish  current  of  ambi- 
tion until  ruined  by  extravagance.  A 
63 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

man  may  know  his  faults,  may  realize 
his  mistakes,  yet  lack  the  moral  courage 
to  reform ;  he  may  be  carried  by  his  pas- 
sions to  the  bittter  end  of  destiny,  real- 
izing meanwhile  the  ruin  which  awaits 
him.  That  is  the  position  of  Spain. 
Let  us  pity  rather  than  condemn. 

The  Spaniards  are  not  comic  opera 
villains,  they  are  a  chivalrous,  warm- 
blooded people,  having  their  faults  as 
we  have  ours,  and  their  chief  fault  is 
overweening  pride.  This  pride  is  the 
prevailing  passion  of  the  individual  as 
of  the  nation ;  it  dominates  society  as  it 
does  the  land.  Pride  is  so  thoroughly 
the  ruling  passion  of  the  Spaniard 
that  Spanish  society  is  to  a  great  extent 
a  game  of  innocent  deception.  To  keep 
up  appearances  a  Spanish  family  will 
make  any  sacrifice,  and  the  consequence 
is  that  social  life  becomes  an  outward 
show,  intended  to  disguise  financial  em- 
barrassment. 

There  are  two  things  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  the  maintenance  of  social  posi- 
64 


Spanish  Society 

tion  in  Spain,  a  carriage  and  an  opera 
box,  and  it  is  extraordinary  how  much 
satisfaction  a  Spanish  family  derives 
from  these  luxuries.  The  first  necessi- 
ties of  an  Anglo-Saxon  are  a  comfortable 
house  and  a  good  cook;  in  Spain  only 
the  very  rich  have  either,  but  the  dis- 
play of  equipages  in  the  Retire  excels 
the  similar  show  in  Central  Park;  the 
opera  in  Madrid  is  as  fine  a  sight 
as  the  opera  in  New  York.  An  Anglo- 
Saxon  invites  a  stranger  to  dine;  a 
Spaniard  takes  him  to  drive,  or  to 
the  opera.  The  hospitality  is  none  the 
less  though  in  a  different  form. 

The  society  of  a  capital  is  always  cos- 
mopolitan. There  are  the  diplomatic 
corps,  the  visiting  foreigners,  and  the 
host  of  government  officials  to  annul  in 
a  measure  the  national  characteristics. 
The  society  of  Madrid  is  no  exception  to 
the  rule.  It  is  cosmopolitan,  but  not  to 
so  great  an  extent  as  that  of  London  or 
Paris.  Nearly  all  the  Spaniards  of 
wealth  live  in  Madrid,  or  visit  there 
65 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

during  a  portion  of  the  year.  The  city, 
except  in  the  summer  months,  wears  a 
holiday  aspect;  there  is  a  continuous 
roll  of  carriages  along  the  street  of  Al- 
cala  and  the  Carrera  San  Geronimo;  the 
shops  are  filled  with  French  and  English 
novelties,  and  the  smartly  dressed  peo- 
ple who  come  and  go  wear  French  gowns 
or  London  made  clothes.  It  is  fre- 
quently said  that  Paris  is  not  France; 
Madrid  is  certainly  not  Spain.  The  peo- 
ple one  meets  in  society  are  of  the  class 
found  in  every  capital.  They  are  states- 
men, soldiers,  diplomats,  or  what  are 
vulgarly  termed  "smart  people."  Au- 
thors, painters,  and  especially  actors,  play 
minor  parts,  for  the  Spaniard  still  re- 
gards the  Bohemian  in  the  light  of  an 
outcast. 

The  society  of  Madrid  is  small  com- 
paratively, but  it  is  extremely  active. 
The  people  are  ever  on  the  go,  and  they 
are  intimate  to  a  degree  unknown  in 
London.  They  are  very  clannish  too, 
and  do  not  receive  foreigners  with  the 
66 


Spanish  Society 

open  arms  of  a  New  Yorker.  If  Madrid 
were  bereft  of  the  foreign  embassies  and 
the  entertainments  given  by  the  diplo- 
mats, there  would  be  a  marvelous  de- 
preciation in  the  gaiety  of  the  city;  but 
in  spite  of  all  the  foreigners  do,  only  a 
limited  few  seem  to  be  received  within 
the  esoteric  temples  of  the  "smart  set." 
It  is  interesting  to  note  how  different 
are  the  faces  at  an  official  entertainment 
and  at  a  private  dance,  where  people  are 
invited  for  themselves  and  not  for  their 
positions;  but  after  all  the  same  pertains 
to  Washington. 

Dances  are  the  joy  of  the  Madrilenas 
and  to  their  credit  be  it  said  that  they 
dance  more  like  Americans  than  any 
other  people  of  Europe.  They  go  at  it 
with  a  dash  and  a  vim  not  at  all  in  keep- 
ing with  their  supposed  dignity.  The  first 
dance  one  attended  in  Madrid  was  a  small 
informal  affair,  with  not  more  than  fifty 
or  sixty  people  present,  all  intimate 
friends.  A  single  pianist  supplied  the 
music,  and  as  one  entered  the  room  the 
67 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

familiar  notes  of  "Daisy  Bell"  rolled 
from  the  keys.  The  people  were  waltzing 
in  the  American  way — that  is  to  say,  re- 
versing; they  were  romping  too,  and 
many  of  them  were  singing  the  words  of 
the  song — it  seemed  like  home.  Some- 
times the  levity  of  the  Spaniards  takes  a 
childish  form,  as  on  that  occasion  three 
young  swells  amused  themselves  by  pur- 
loining a  couple  of  dozen  hats  belonging 
to  the  guests,  which  they  proceeded  to 
throw  from  a  theatre  box  to  a  popular 
opera  bouffe  artist.  The  guests  were 
left  to  go  home  in  shooting  caps,  paper 
caps,  mufflers,  or  even  bareheaded,  and 
as  some  of  them  did  not  relish  the  humor 
of  the  joke  a  series  of  duels  was  but 
narrowly  averted. 

The  few  houses  where  dinners  are 
given  might  well  be  in  London  or  Paris. 
The  appointments  are  the  same,  the 
guests  look,  dress  and  talk  the  same, 
the  only  difference  being  that  the  gossip 
and  scandalous  stories  are  about  differ- 
ent people.  If  one  knew  the  people  by 
68 


Spanish  Society 

name  the  same  stories  would  be  appli- 
cable, as  the  Madrilefias,  judging  by 
the  gossip,  are  evidently  no  better  or  no 
worse  than  Londoners  or  Parisians. 
There  is  great  familiarity  in  the  use  of 
the  Christian  name,  and  men  and  women 
of  all  ages  call  each  other  Pepita,  Car- 
men, Maria,  Pepe,  Gonzalo,  or  whatever 
their  prenomens  may  be,  with  an  inti- 
macy scarcely  equalled  in  our  American 
country  towns. 

A  society  will  be  dazzling,  witty  or 
corrupt,  according  to  the  beauty,  intelli- 
gence and  morality  of  its  women. 
Judged  by  this  standard  the  society  of 
Madrid,  though  one  hesitates  to  say  it 
boldly,  appears  somewhat  mediocre. 
The  women  of  Spain  are  often  extremely 
beautiful,  but  it  is  among  the  lower  classes 
rather  than  the  upper,  that  real  beauty 
is  most  often  found.  A  Spanish  woman 
reaches  her  prime  at  fifteen  or  sixteen, 
but  she  ages  quickly,  and  usually  devel- 
ops a  tendency  to  corpulency.  Her  edu- 
cation is  not  of  a  character  tending  to 
69 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

develop  her  mental  powers.  She  is 
brought  up  to  be  a  wife  and  a  mother, 
and  her  studies  are  of  the  most  rudimen- 
tary nature.  In  religion,  however,  her 
instruction  is  most  careful,  but  she  is  not 
permitted  to  think  for  herself.  The 
priest  is  the  supreme  guardian  of  her 
conscience,  and  she  is  so  thoroughly 
grounded  in  the  tenets  of  Romanism  that 
she  usually  becomes  a  devotionist.  The 
Spanish  women  have  delightful  manners ; 
they  are  thoroughly  feminine  and  charm- 
ing, but  they  read  very  little,  and  seem 
quite  incapable  of  discussing  the  affairs 
of  the  world  as  do  their  Anglo-Saxon 
sisters.  The  women  of  Madrid,  how- 
ever, seem  to  be  deeply  interested  in 
court  intrigue  and  are  violent  political 
partisans;  but  the  new  woman  is  an  un- 
known quantity,  and  such  societies  as 
the  Sorosis  are  undreamt  of. 

Of  home  life  among  the  Spaniards,  there 

seems  to  be  quite  as  much  as,  if  not  more 

than,  with  us.     The  family  ties  are  very 

strong,  and  there  is  more  parental  rever- 

70 


Spanish  Society 

ence  than  among  Americans.  The  Span- 
ish families  are  perhaps  more  comparable 
to  the  French,  with  this  exception:  filial 
love  and  parental  affection  are  not  the 
all-absorbing  passions.  Spanish  young 
men  and  girls  are  permitted  more  lati- 
tude in  the  matter  of  love-making  than 
the  French,  though  they  are  hampered 
by  conventionalities  unknown  in  Saxon 
lands.  Love  matches  are  common,  but 
the  lovers  are  not  allowed  the  privilege 
of  seclusion  from  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
They  meet  at  the  theatre,  at  dances,  in 
the  park,  or  wherever  society  congre- 
gates, but  they  must  be  ever  under  the 
eye  of  a  duena.  The  wishes  of  contract- 
ing parties  to  marriages  are,  however, 
more  generally  consulted  than  in  France, 
and  engagements  are  frequently  of  very 
long  duration.  Spanish  girls  are  rather 
sentimental  in  their  ideas  of  love.  Mar- 
riage is  a  favorite  topic  of  their  conver- 
sation. It  is  the  one  event  of  their 
lives,  to  which  they  look  forward  for 
it  means  to  a  great  extent  emancipation. 
7* 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

But  the  married  women  do  not  have  the 
liberty  of  American  wives;  they  must 
be  much  more  guarded  in  their  actions, 
and  the  husband  is  the  ruler  of  the 
household.  Spaniards  say  that  the  lib- 
erty accorded  American  women  would 
be  impossible  in  Spain — the  blood  flows 
too  warmly  there — scandal  would  surely 
ensue. 

The  traditions  of  Spain  are  all  mon- 
archical ;  the  nobility  have  great  power 
and  influence,  and  the  possession  of  a 
title  is  almost  a  sine  qua  non  of  social 
distinction.  The  Spanish  nobility  is 
more  comparable  to  that  of  England 
than  to  the  nobility  of  other  European 
countries,  but  it  has  a  distinctive  feature 
of  its  own  in  the  "Grandees  of  Spain." 
Grandees  are  nobles  to  whom  special 
hereditary  privileges  have  been  granted. 
Those  having  an  annual  rental  from 
land  of  $10,000  sit  in  the  senate,  and  all 
grandees  have  the  curious  privilege  of 
remaining  covered  in  the  presence  of  the 
sovereign.  As  "cousins"  of  the  king 
72 


HIS    MAJESTY    ALFONSO    XIII 


Spanish  Society 

they  take  precedence  of  the  diplomatic 
corps,  but  this  'has  given  rise  to  such 
vigorous  protest  on  the  part  of  the  diplo- 
mats that  separate  state  banquets  are 
given  for  the  ambassadors  and  the 
grandees.  A  grandee  in  uniform  wears 
a  gold  key  over  the  right  hip,  as  a  sign 
that  he  may  enter  the  palace  and  confer 
with  his  sovereign  at  any  time.  It  is  his 
most  cherished  privilege,  and  one  which 
the  monarch  is  bound  to  regard.  When  a 
grandee  passes  a  palace  guard,  he  is 
saluted  by  a  sharp  pound  of  the  halberd 
upon  the  marble  floor.  These  special 
privileges  date  from  the  reign  of  the  em- 
peror Charles  V.  who  created  twelve 
grandees.  The  number,  having  been  in- 
creased by  successive  monarchs,  is  now 
much  larger,  although  but  a  small  por- 
tion of  the  nobility  are  grandees.  The 
privileges  of  grandees  are  confined  to 
the  higher  nobility,  as  none  of  the  vis- 
counts or  barons  are  grandees  (except 
in  the  case  of  the  Duke  of  Infantado, 
who  has  two  baronial  titles  with  gran- 
73 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

deza  privileges),  and  but  one  in  ten  of 
the  thousand  marquises,  and  seven  hun- 
dred odd  counts  wear  the  coveted  gold- 
en key;  while  all  of  the  hundred  and 
nine  ducal  titles  carry  with  them  the 
privileges  and  honors  of  a  Grandee  of 
Spain.  Spanish  titles,  like  the  English, 
descend  to  the  eldest  son,  and  the  heir 
to  a  grandeeship  has  no  especial  appella- 
tion beyond  that  of  excellency.  The 
Spaniards  regard  their  nobility  as  second 
to  none  in  lineage,  but  although  a  few 
of  the  titles  date  to  the  early  part  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  and  one  or  two  to  the 
fourteenth,  it  is  nevertheless  a  fact  that 
about  one-third  of  the  Spanish  titles 
have  been  created  in  the  present  century. 
There  is  a  curious  fact  in  relation  to 
Spanish  titles  which  may  be  of  great  in- 
terest to  unmarried  American  million- 
aires anxious  to  emulate  the  example  set 
by  our  heiresses.  Titles  not  only  de- 
scend through  the  female  line,  but  a 
man  upon  marrying  a  titled  woman  im- 
mediately assumes  his  wife's  title.  There 
74 


Spanish  Society 

is  at  least  one  unmarried  duchess  in 
Spain  and  several  marchionesses.  An 
American  upon  marrying  a  duchess 
would  be  created  a  duke  and  a  grandee, 
and  by  purchasing  a  property  with  an 
annual  rental  of  ten  thousand  dollars 
would  have  a  seat  for  life  in  the  senate — 
what  an  opportunity  for  some  New 
Yorker. 

There  is  probably  no  court  in  Europe 
where  there  is  more  etiquette  than  at  the 
court  of  Spain.  To  an  American  who 
views  the  bowings  and  scrapings,  and 
endless  red  tape,  it  all  seems  such  a 
waste  of  valuable  time,  such  a  sham  and 
mockery,  that  republican  institutions,  in 
spite  of  their  faults,  stand  out  in  honor- 
able contrast.  Yet  a  monarchy  is  suited 
to  the  Spanish  character.  One  doubts 
if  a  republic  could  thrive  among  a  peo- 
ple so  proud,  so  excitable,  and  withal, 
so  ignorant. 

Spaniards  are  not  what  Dr.  Johnson 
termed  "clubable"  men;  they  have 
their  clubs,  but  in  most  instances  they 
75 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

are  like  those  of  France,  that  is  to  say, 
gambling  houses,  with  restricted  mem- 
bership. Roulette  and  baccarat  flourish, 
and  the  place  most  frequented  is  the 
gaming-room.  However,  the  most  ex- 
clusive club  in  Madrid  does  not  permit 
games  of  chance.  In  the  matter  of  build- 
ings, the  clubs  of  Madrid  are  inferior 
to  those  of  the  provinces,  as  the  pride 
of  a  provincial  city  is  its  casino,  or  club. 
In  Cordova,  for  instance,  the  casino  is  a 
most  elaborate  affair,  covering  a  large 
area,  and  supplied  with  accommodations 
ample  for  a  city  of  twice  the  size.  In 
Seville,  too,  there  are  several  clubs  in 
the  Sierpes  with  creditable  buildings, 
while  the  most  exclusive  club  in  Madrid 
occupies  a  small  portion  of  an  apartment 
house,  and  is  in  no  way  remarkable  for 
its  equipment.  There  are  a  few  large 
clubs  in  the  capital,  with  handsome  build- 
ings, but  the  membership  of  such  insti- 
tutions is  selected  rather  casually,  and 
the  social  standing  is  not  high.  There  is 
a  "Fine  Arts"  club,  composed  princi- 
76 


Spanish  Society 

pally  of  artists  and  literary  men,  and 
several  military  casinos,  but  only  one 
club  in  Madrid  seemed  at  all  comparable 
to  the  best  clubs  of  London,  Paris  or  New 
York.  It  is  frequented  by  the  most 
fashionable  young  men  and  the  best 
known  diplomats.  But  it  was  in  no  way 
Spanish;  in  fact  French  and  English 
were  spoken  there  more  frequently  than 
the  language  of  the  country.  Another 
club  is  more  thoroughly  typical  of  the 
country.  It  is  fashionable  to  a  great 
extent,  but  there  is  a  free  and  easy 
air  about  the  place  which  is  rather  re- 
freshing. Strange  caricatures  of  the 
prominent  members  have  been  drawn 
upon  the  walls,  and  the  habitues  seem 
thoroughly  at  home.  It  also  occupies 
but  a  portion  of  an  apartment  building, 
but  there  is  much  originality  in  the  dec- 
oration and  furnishing  of  the  rooms. 
Unfortunately  gambling  is  permitted 
and  the  green  tables  are  surrounded  by 
flushed  and  anxious  faces. 

As  has  been  said,  Madrid  is  not  Spain. 
77 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

In  the  provinces  society  is  typical  of  the 
country;  it  is  more  dignified,  and  neces- 
sarily more  dull.  The  provincial  nobil- 
ity are  abnormally  proud,  and  it  is  in  the 
smaller  cities  that  one  meets  Spaniards 
whose  bearing  is  that  of  the  hidalgo  of 
romance.  In  Seville,  for  instance,  the 
third  city  of  Spain,  and  socially  the  sec- 
ond, there  is  a  dullness  in  the  social  life 
that  is  apparent  even  to  the  casual  visi- 
tor. The  people  drive  in  state  in  the 
afternoon,  they  go  to  the  opera  night 
after  night,  but  that  is  all.  On  fete 
days  they  visit  each  other,  but  dances 
and  dinners  are  so  rare  that  a  supper 
party  given  during  the  time  of  one's  visit 
was  discussed  with  the  interest  that  a 
state  ball  would  have  created  in  Madrid. 
In  the  provinces,  too,  the  desire  to  keep 
up  appearances  is  more  noticeable.  Peo- 
ple economize  in  the  household  expenses 
to  the  smallest  item,  in  order  that  their 
names  may  appear  among  the  box  hold- 
ers at  the  opera.  It  is  even  said  that 
the  women  driving  in  the  park  are  some- 
78 


Spanish  Society 

times  fashionably  dressed  above  the 
waist,  while  a  carriage-rug  covers  well- 
worn  apparel.  Such  stories  are  told  by 
Spaniards  themselves;  their  reliability 
one  does  not  vouch  for,  but  one  cannot 
fail  to  notice  the  elaborate  excuses  of- 
fered for  not  extending  dinner  invita- 
tions. But  withal  there  are  no  people 
more  courteous  and  hospitable  than  the 
Spaniards.  They  will  go  to  infinite 
pains  to  pay  the  smallest  attention  to  a 
stranger;  will  even  tramp  from  church 
to  church,  and  gallery  to  gallery,  in  en- 
deavoring to  show  one  the  sights;  they 
will  take  you  shopping,  call  at  your 
hotel  twice  a  day  to  offer  their  services, 
and  in  short,  do  a  thousand  and  one 
things  no  Anglo-Saxon  would  ever  dream 
of. 

The  Spaniard  may  be  overweening 
in  his  pride,  but  he  is  overpowering 
in  his  courtesy.  An  Englishman  or  an 
American  will  dismiss  a  stranger  with  a 
dinner,  and  feel  that  he  has  done  his 
duty;  a  Spaniard  will  avoid  giving  such 
79 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

an  invitation  by  every  possible  excuse, 
because  his  pride  prevents  his  extending 
hospitality  for  which  his  means  are  inad- 
equate ;  but  he  will  send  you  flowers  and 
take  you  to  drive  each  day  of  your  visit; 
he  will  bestow  countless  little  attentions, 
and  show  a  real  interest  in  your  welfare, 
and  a  desire  to  please,  which  make  you 
feel  that  his  hospitality  is  not  perfunc- 
tory. When  you  part  from  him  you  feel 
that  you  have  parted  from  a  friend. 
There  are  little  courtesies  of  ordinary 
occurrence  in  Spain  which  contrast  forci- 
bly with  Anglo-Saxon  boorishness.  For 
instance,  no  one  enters  a  railway  car- 
riage without  bowing  to  every  occupant, 
and  on  leaving  the  same  ceremony  is 
gone  through  with.  On  taking  one's 
seat  at  a  hotel  table  it  is  customary  to 
salute  each  of  the  guests,  and  on  leav- 
ing one  does  the  same.  Upon  enter- 
ing a  shop  you  greet  the  shopkeeper,  and 
when  leaving  "God  be  with  you,"  or 
"May  all  be  well  with  you,"  are  the 
words  he  utters,  even  if  you  have  failed 
80 


Spanish  Society 

to  make  a  purchase.  It  is  only  in  com- 
mercial Barcelona  that  anything  com- 
parable to  incivility  is  apparent,  and 
Barcelona  is  the  home  of  socialism  and 
anarchy;  its  society  is  composed  of  the 
class  of  people  the  French  call  the 
bourgeoisie. 

The  Spaniard  is  proud  and  apathetic 
to  a  degree,  but  he  has  commendable 
qualities  as  well.  It  is  difficult  to  excuse 
him  to  Americans  because  his  character- 
istics are  the  reverse  of  those  most  uni- 
versally admired  in  this  country.  He  is 
not  a  "hustler"  nor  a  money  getter,  and 
he  is  open  to  the  charge  of  cruelty  in  his 
national  sport;  but  even  that  is  a  matter 
of  education.  One  remembers  distinctly 
a  young  Spanish  officer  who  had  just 
witnessed  a  Yale-Princeton  football 
game,  saying  that  he  considered  the 
sport  barbarous  and  cruel,  and  totally 
unfit  for  gentlemen.  That  same  man 
was  an  ardent  "aficionado"  of  bull-fight- 
ing. 

There  are  no  more  enthusiastic  patrons 
81 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

of  the  bull-ring  in  Madrid  than  many  of 
the  foreign  diplomats,  and  one  remem- 
bers clearly  the  secretary  of  the  United 
States  legation  stationed  in  Madrid  at 
the  time  of  a  former  visit,  saying  that 
he  was  an  annual  subscriber  and  had 
not  missed  a  "Corrida"  during  his  entire 
term  of  office.  After  all  the  Spaniard  is 
what  heaven  has  created  him  —  a  proud, 
sensitive  and  courteous  creature,  sincere 
in  his  fidelity  to  his  church,  his  country, 
and  his  family;  insincere  perhaps  in  his 
dealings  with  others;  cruel  as  we  under- 
stand cruelty,  indolent  too;  but  never- 
theless an  average  man,  who  has  suffered 
much  in  the  school  of  adversity,  and 
whose  future  depends  upon  his  ability  to 
profit  by  the  lessons  of  the  past. 


Seville  the  Fair. 

FAIR  and  delicate  as  a  maiden,  a 
city  for  delightful  fancies,  where 
fountains  trickle  in  shady  courts  and 
oranges  bloom,  where  the  sun  is  ever 
shining  and  the  lover  ever  whispering  at 
the  lattice  of  his  mistress.  That  is  Se- 
ville, the  gem  of  Andalusia,  and  Andalu- 
sia means  all  that  is  fairest  in  Spain.  It 
is  a  city  where  white-walled  houses  with 
hanging  balconies  and  sloping  roofs  are 
scattered  gracefully  about  in  bewildering 
streets  and  lanes,  with  no  more  apparent 
purpose  than  to  be  picturesque. 

There  are  brilliant  highways,  where 
the  roll  of  carriages  is  heard  and  the 
mules  of  tram  cars  clatter  over  the 
stones.  There  are  sleepy  byways  too, 
with  rows  of  dingy  little  shops,  where 
artisans  are  working  and  their  wares  are 
83 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

displayed  for  sale,  while  mingled  with 
the  hovels  of  the  poor  are  the  imposing 
entrances  of  patrician  houses  where  the 
passer-by  peers  enviously  through  courts 
with  growing  palms  and  marble  columns 
glistening  in  the  sunlight. 

He  who  has  not  seen  Seville  has  not 
seen  a  marvel  (Quien  no  ha  visto  Sevilla 
no  ha  visto  maravilla)  runs  an  Andalusian 
proverb,  but  there  is  nothing  marvelous 
in  Seville.  It  is  dainty  and  graceful 
with  the  delicacy  of  a  piece  of  old  lace, 
or  a  rare  bit  of  Dresden.  Wherever  one 
turns  there  is  color  and  beauty  and  grace 
in  outline;  nothing  seems  inharmonious 
unless  it  be  the  beggars,  and  even  they 
are  picturesque.  Only  the  cathedral,  ris- 
ing massive  and  grand  in  the  centre  of 
the  city,  recalls  the  vicissitudes  of  his- 
tory, and  makes  one  remember  that  the 
Phoenician  and  the  Roman,  the  Visigoth 
and  Moor  were  each  in  turn  masters  of 
Seville  before  the  fires  of  the  Inquisition 
blazed  in  the  public  squares,  or  the 
tramp  of  Napoleon's  soldiers  echoed 
84 


Seville  the  Fair 

through  the  streets.  On  the  site  of  this 
cathedral  a  pagan  temple  and  a  Gothic 
basilica,  a  Moorish  mosque  and  another 
Christian  church  have  stood,  and  now  in 
the  splendid  pile  of  to-day  the  Moorish 
and  the  Gothic,  the  Grseco-Roman  and 
the  plateresque  are  blended,  each  in  the 
zenith  of  its  strength. 

This  ponderous  church  stands  sombre 
and  grey  among  the  delicate  houses  of 
Seville  like  an  altar  of  death  in  the  midst 
of  revelry.  It  is  mighty  and  magnificent, 
yet  so  unlike  the  gay  cheerful  city,  that 
one  pauses  to  wonder  whence  it  came. 
Only  the  beautiful  Giralda,  with  its 
slender  belfry  and  graceful  Moorish 
arches  rising  against  the  pale  blue  sky 
seems  to  be  of  Seville;  the  rest  is 
solemn,  one  might  even  say  repulsive, 
were  it  not  for  its  grandeur.  Yet  one 
pauses  to  admire  the  splendid  Gothic 
portals  with  their  sculptured  saints  and 
patriarchs,  or  the  light  flying  buttresses 
which  spring  from  nave  to  nave  with  the 
profusion  of  pinnacles  and  domes  above. 
85 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Only  when  one  enters  does  one  appreci- 
ate the  harmony  and  unity  of  that  edi- 
fice. Other  churches  are  chaste  and 
magnificent,  and  even  grand,  but  the  first 
impression  of  the  cathedral  of  Seville  is 
one  of  solemn  reverence.  There  is  a 
severity  and  simplicity  in  those  vast  pro- 
portions which  is  awe-inspiring,  and 
wandering  through  the  lofty  nave  and 
splendid  chapels,  with  their  gorgeous 
gilt  retablos  and  priceless  works  of  art, 
where  sombre  figures  kneel  in  prayer,  and 
the  chanting  of  priests  echoes  from  the 
walls,  where  candles  glimmer  and  the 
odor  of  incense  fills  the  air,  one  knows 
that  it  is  the  House  of  God.  But  that 
is  the  impression  of  another  visit.  Part 
of  the  roof  fell  in  some  ten  years  since, 
and  now  huge  scaffolding  fills  in  the 
greater  portion  of  the  church,  and  the 
click  of  hammer  and  chisel  is  heard. 
The  work  of  restoration  seems  nearly 
complete,  but  the  slowness  of  Spanish 
labor  is  such  that  four  years  must  elapse 
before  the  scaffolding  can  be  removed. 
86 


Seville  the  Fair 

This  cathedral  has  its  quota  of  the  bones 
of  saints  and  pieces  of  the  true  cross; 
there  are  jewels  and  gold  embroidered 
vestments,  the  tombs  of  kings  and  the 
mistresses  of  kings,  and  noble  paintings 
by  the  master  hand  of  Murillo;  but 
churches  grow  gloomy  and  cold,  and 
sunlight  fills  the  streets  of  Seville. 

There  is  an  old  friend  outside,  one 
you  cannot  exactly  recall,  but  whose  form 
seems  familiar.  It  is  the  Moorish 
Giralda,  once  a  watch  tower,  but  now 
the  belfry  of  the  cathedral.  Somehow 
your  thoughts  turn  towards  America  and 
you  think  of  Madison  Square,  and  the 
Garden  tower,  and  then  you  see  a  family 
likeness  in  towers,  not  one  that  is  objec- 
tionable, however,  or  in  the  least  dis- 
creditable, for  what  grander  inspiration 
could  an  artist  have  than  this  tower  of 
Seville? 

The  bells  above  are  clanging  the  hour 

of  vespers,  and  slowly  climbing  the  gentle 

incline   which    leads   round    and   round 

within  the  Giralda  walls,  you  reach  the 

87 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

top  in  time  to  see  the  setting  of  the  sun. 
Below  are  the  moss-grown  domes  and 
countless  pinnacles  of  the  cathedral,  and 
then  the  white-walled  houses  of  the  city, 
with  their  quaint  tile  roofs,  lie  in  con- 
fusion as  though  some  child  had  over- 
turned a  box  of  play  houses  and  left  them 
there  as  they  had  fallen.  No  streets  are 
visible  except  directly  below,  for  the 
streets  are  so  narrow  and  irregular  as  to 
be  lost  in  the  jumble  of  walls  and  roofs; 
but  rising  above  the  tiles  and  whitewash 
are  the  sombre  belfries  of  churches,  the 
Plaza  de  Toros,  the  huge  square  tobacco 
factory,  and  the  Alcazar  with  its  red  Moor- 
ish towers,  and  gardens  where  the  Cyprus 
and  orange  grow,  and  slender  palms  are 
scattered  in  profusion.  Then  the  Gua- 
dalquivir winds  like  a  silver  serpent  past 
the  wooded  promenade  they  call  "Las 
Delicias,"  and  the  Torre  del  Oro  now 
truly  golden  in  the  fading  sunlight. 
Across  the  river,  with  its  shipping  and  its 
graceful  bridges,  lies  Triana,  the  suburb 
of  gypsies  and  porcelain  factories,  where 
88 


Seville  the  Fair 

Trajan  is  said  to  have  been  born,  and 
the  worst  spirits  of  the  city  congregate, 
and  beyond  all,  the  green  plain  of  Seville 
rolls  towards  Cadiz  and  the  sea,  dotted 
here  and  there  with  olive  groves  and 
white  pueblos.  To  the  west,  towards  the 
ancient  port  of  Palos,  the  sun  is  setting 
behind  the  foothills  of  the  Sierra  Morena. 
The  floating  clouds  above  are  golden,  the 
river  glistens,  deep  shadows  fall  upon  the 
plain,  and  then,  as  the  crimson  sun  sinks 
behind  the  line  of  purple  hills,  the  night 
creeps  chilly  and  dark  across  the  Vega. 
The  bells  above  cease  clanging,  the 
noises  of  the  streets  grow  still,  lights 
twinkle  here  and  there  and  everywhere, 
and  in  the  court  below  the  black-robed 
priests  come  and  go  in  the  twilight  like 
spirits  of  the  dead.  One  might  dream 
there  forever,  but  the  blind  guardian  of 
the  tower  jingles  his  bunch  of  keys 
impatiently;  the  hour  for  closing  has  ar- 
rived. Then  you  grope  your  way  to  the 
earth  again  and  stroll  through  the  town. 
The  little  shops  are  lighted,  the  narrow 
89 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

streets  are  crowded,  for  it  is  the  time  of 
the  evening  promenade,  when  all  Seville 
turns  out  to  wander  through  the  Sierpes; 
all  Seville  wrapped  in  its  capa  or  its 
mantilla. 

The  Sierpes  is  a  curious  street,  or  lane, 
or  whatever  it  be,  for  it  is  narrow  and 
crooked,  and  it  is  closed  to  carriages. 
The  clubs  and  cafes  are  there,  and  the 
fashionable  shops.  People  saunter  there 
in  the  daytime  and  they  saunter  there  at 
night.  They  lounge  in  the  windows  of 
the  clubs,  and  sip  black  coffee  at  the 
marble  tables  of  the  cafes,  or  they  stroll 
to  and  fro  gazing  at  the  trinkets  from 
Paris  and  London  displayed  in  the  shops. 
Spaniards  are  never  in  a  hurry.  There 
is  a  charming  lack  of  energy  about 
them  which,  from  an  artistic  standpoint, 
is  delightful.  A  man  in  a  hurry  is  never 
picturesque,  whatever  else  he  may  be, 
and  to  one  accustomed  to  the  bustling 
streets  of  America  it  is  a  real  pleasure 
to  mingle  with  a  sauntering  Spanish 
crowd  and  watch  the  apparent  indiffer- 
90 


Seville  the  Fair 

ence  with  which  they  treat  the  affairs  of 
the  world.  From  the  grand  sefior  to  the 
beggar  they  walk  with  the  same  loitering 
step,  their  graceful  capas  thrown  about 
their  shoulders,  their  broad  brimmed 
hats  poised  easily  upon  their  heads,  a 
cigarillo  ever  burning  between  their  lips. 
And  the  olive-skinned  women,  so  beauti- 
ful, but  alas!  so  fat,  amble  by  like 
palfreys,  and  look  at  one  with  their  dark, 
soulful  eyes,  coquettishly  perhaps,  or 
more  often  scornful. 

But  if  you  want  to  see  lithe,  quick 
movements,  you  must  drop  into  the 
"Burero"  and  watch  the  dancing  girls  as 
they  dance  the  "baile  flamenco"  to  the 
twanging  of  guitars  and  the  clapping  of 
hands.  It  is  the  resort  of  the  people, 
where  crowds  sit  at  the  rough  wooden 
tables  and  sip  their  copas  of  manzanilla, 
or  aguardiente.  From  the  gallery  above 
you  look  down  upon  the  stage  and 
the  people.  It  is  like  a  picture  by  For- 
tuny.  Such  strong  effects  of  lights  and 
shadows  —  such  brilliant  colors;  there 
91 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

are  the  bright  shawls  of  the  women,  the 
sashes  of  the  men,  the  uniforms  of  the 
soldiers;  the  walls  are  striped  in  blue 
and  yellow,  and  the  lights  shine  dimly 
through  the  smoke.  The  dark  faces  are 
so  brutish,  and  the  scene  so  Spanish,  you 
wish  you  were  an  artist  and  could  paint 
it  all.  Otero,  the  Parisian  favorite,  be- 
gan her  career  in  such  a  place,  and  the 
girl  who  is  dancing  (Lorlita  they  call 
her),  a  lithe,  young  creature,  slender 
and  beautiful,  with  the  dark  languishing 
beauty  of  the  south,  perhaps  she  will 
have  princes  and  American  millionaires 
at  her  feet  some  day.  She  is  worthy  of 
it,  if  such  creatures  ever  are.  Her  eyes 
glisten  in  the  light  of  lamps,  a  crimson 
rose  is  in  her  hair.  "Eh,  Lorlita!  nina!" 
shout  the  other  dancing  girls,  who  sit 
upon  the  stage  clapping  their  hands,  as 
with  stamping  feet  and  snapping  fingers, 
her  head  thrown  back  imperiously,  her 
body  writhing  like  a  serpent,  she  dances 
the  dance  of  the  Gitanas,  with  the  sensu- 
ous abandon  of  her  race.  Three  impas- 
92 


Seville  the  Fair 

sive  Spaniards,  with  bloated  faces  and 
little  beastly  eyes,  twang  their  guitars; 
one  of  them  sings  in  a  high-pitched  key  a 
quaint  accompanying  refrain  with  words 
not  always  the  purest,  while,  strang- 
est of  all,  a  group  of  children,  offspring 
of  the  dancing  girls,  play  in  the  room 
behind  the  stage.  As  Lorlita,  the  favor- 
ite, finishes  her  wild  dance,  a  storm  of 
applause  breaks  forth,  men  get  upon  the 
benches  and  shout,  a  dozen  or  more  hats 
are  thrown  upon  the  stage.  That  is  the 
Burero,  but  in  time  it  palls,  for  the  other 
girls  are  plain  and  fat,  and  the  air  is  not 
of  the  best. 

Wandering  home  through  the  dark 
winding  byways,  you  pass  cloaked  figures 
whispering  at  iron-barred  windows. 
They  are  the  lovers  of  Seville,  pelando 
la  pava  (plucking  the  turkey),  as  they 
call  it.  With  the  lattice  slightly  open 
the  fair  Sevilliana  sits  in  her  darkened 
chamber  talking  in  whispered  tones  to 
the  gallant  without.  The  "old  folks," 
to  borrow  a  homely  phrase,  being  weary 
93 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

of  the  task  of  chaperonage,  after  locking 
the  daughter  in  a  room  barred  like  a 
prison  cell,  have  gone  to  bed,  and  for 
hours,  sometimes  the  entire  night,  the 
affianced  lovers  look  through  the  grating 
into  each  others'  eyes,  and  whisper  the 
nothings  of  love.  It  would  seem  cold 
comfort  to  a  northern  swain,  but  the 
Spaniards  say  the  iron  bars  are  a  neces- 
sary evil  there  in  the  south  where  the 
blood  runs  warm. 

In  the  early  morning,  when  the  air  is 
chilly  and  streets  are  still  in  shadow, 
you  loiter  towards  the  market;  that  is,  if 
you  are  fond  of  life  and  character.  The 
market  of  Seville,  like  the  people,  is 
picturesque.  The  old  stone  arcade, 
which  forms  a  quadrangle  about  the 
booths,  has  a  charm  which  is  quaint  and 
Spanish.  Its  walls  rise  white  against  the 
blue  sky,  and  deep  shadows  of  its  grace- 
ful arches  are  cast  upon  the  flagstones. 
The  striped  awnings  of  the  stalls  blend 
with  the  multi-colored  shawls  of  the  mar- 
ket women ;  piles  of  oranges  and  lemons 
94 


Seville  the  Fair 

glisten  in  the  sunlight;  there  are  festoons 
of  grapes,  and  strings  of  garlic  dangling 
from  the  arches;  citrons  and  grape  fruit 
hang  in  hempen  slings,  while  apples  and 
radishes,  onions  and  cabbages,  lie  heaped 
in  artistic  confusion  upon  the  pavement. 
The  hum  of  voices,  the  shrill  cries  of 
venders  fill  the  air,  but  the  people  loiter 
and  gossip,  and  sun  themselves.  No  one 
is  in  a  hurry.  Old  stooping  men  in 
capas  slink  among  the  crowded  market 
stalls,  puffing  the  ever  present  cigarillo; 
olive-skinned  women  in  faded  cotton 
gowns  and  brilliant  colored  shawls  wad- 
dle along  with  babes  and  baskets  in  their 
arms,  or  stop  to  prattle  and  bargain  with 
the  fat  and  greasy  butchers,  who  stand 
enshrined  like  sacrificial  priests  behind 
their  altars  of  beef  and  mutton  and 
their  bowers  of  sausages.  Blue  smocked 
porters  with  cords  and  mantas  slung 
across  their  shoulders  lounge  in  the  sun- 
light. Pretty  girls,  with  roses  in  their 
hair  and  roguish  eyes,  flirt  with  the 
slender,  black-haired  youths  who  loiter 
95 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

in  groups;  the  dogs  bark,  the  children 
play,  but  they  play  in  the  listless,  lazy 
way  of  Spain.  There  is  life  and  color 
everywhere,  and  you  think  the  Spaniard 
was  born  to  be  an  artist's  model,  for 
Seville  is  the  painters'  paradise. 

But  in  the  maze  of  tortuous  streets 
about  the  market  one  sees  more  of  the  life 
of  the  people.  There  the  whitewashed 
houses  are  outlined  against  the  brilliant 
sky  in  rambling  perspective,  and  the 
graceful  tower  of  some  parish  church, 
its  brown  walls  moss  grown,  its  bright 
tiles  shining,  rises  sharp  and  clear  into  the 
blue  above.  Dark  maidens,  with  glossy 
hair  and  warm  color  in  their  cheeks, 
gaze  idly  from  the  miradores  above 
upon  the  countless  people  in  the  nar- 
row street  below.  The  cobbler  ham- 
mers and  stitches  in  his  smoky  little  shop 
without  window  or  door,  glasses  clink  in 
the  taberna,  sleek  cows  with  mournful 
eyes  and  tinkling  bells  stand  silently 
chewing  their  cuds  in  the  milkman's 
stall,  and  the  dainty  feet  of  shaggy  don- 
96 


Seville  the  Fair 

keys  patter  on  the  cobble  stones,  as  the 
patient  little  beasts  thread  their  way 
through  the  street,  only  their  huge  sway- 
ing ears  and  little  tails  visible  beneath 
their  bulging  panniers  of  straw  or  char- 
coal. Then  you  wander  along,  picking 
your  way  through  the  good-natured 
crowds  until  you  reach  some  little  plaza, 
with  its  quaint  parish  church  where  beg- 
gars sun  themselves  upon  the  flagstones, 
and  the  puestos,  or  booths  of  street  ped- 
dlers, with  graceful  colored  awnings  are 
scattered  picturesquely  about  the  pave- 
ment. There  the  dazzling  sunlight  casts 
fantastic  shadows  on  the  yellow  and  blue 
walls  of  the  houses,  multi-colored  pots, 
or  festoons  of  cotton  prints  hang  in  the 
dingy  shops,  gallardos — dandies  of  the 
street — gossip  in  groups,  or  ogle  the 
passing  maidens;  dogs  snooze  in  sunny 
spots,  and  crowds  of  idlers  cluster  about 
some  barrel  organ  or  blind  guitarist. 
There  is  a  booth  near  by  where  a  bronze- 
skinned  gipsy  is  cooking  molletes  calen- 
titos,  a  sort  of  greasy  flour  cake  fried 
97 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

in  oil,  and  a  wine  puesto  with  its  earthen 
jars  and  huge  bottles  of  red  and  yellow 
wine,  and  there  vagos  loiter  to  eat  and 
drink. 

One  can  stroll  for  hours  in  the  streets 
of  Seville,  watching  the  people  and  talk- 
ing with  them,  too,  for  the  Andalusian 
of  the  lower  classes  is  the  best  of  fel- 
lows. There  is  a  democratic  freedom  in 
his  manner,  at  once  respectful  and  cor- 
dial, which  is  unlike  the  obsequiousness 
or  the  boorishness  of  the  common  people 
of  other  countries.  He  is  slow  and  even 
lazy,  but  he  commands  respect,  and 
nowhere  can  one  meet  such  civility  and 
heartiness  as  is  shown  by  the  Andalu- 
sian peasant.  But  you  must  unbend  and 
meet  him  half  way.  He  does  not  like 
Saxon  stiffness,  and  a  cordial  word  or 
the  offer  of  a  cigarette  will  accomplish 
more  than  a  handful  of  silver.  When 
you  go  into  a  taberna  of  the  people 
where  aguardiente  and  manzanilla  are 
sold  at  a  cent  a  glass,  the  habitues  all 
greet  you  with  a  word  of  welcome,  and 
98 


Seville  the  Fair 

the  barkeeper  serves  his  liquor   with   a 
courtliness  which  is  Chesterfieldian. 

They  are  rough  places,  those  common 
taverns.  There  is  one  in  particular, 
across  the  river  in  Triana,  where  the 
"Bowery  toughs"  of  Seville,  the  matones 
they  are  called,  gather  to  drink  and 
quarrel.  They  say  that  every  Sevillian 
who  is  spoiling  for  a  fight  goes  there, 
and  many  are  the  cutting  affrays  when 
navajos  are  drawn,  and  with  mantas 
wrapped  about  the  left  arm,  the  duellists 
crouch  and  slowly  follow  each  other 
around  watching  the  opportunity  for 
the  fatal  spring,  just  as  they  do  in  Car- 
men. This  taberna  of  the  bullies  is  a 
low  dingy  place,  spanned  by  high  beams 
smoked  black  by  ages  of  cigarettes  and 
dirt.  It  is  open  to  the  street  on  two 
sides,  and  supporting  the  corner  beams 
is  an  old  Roman  column  which  looks  as 
though  it  may  have  been  standing  since 
the  time  of  Trajan.  The  floor  is  of  dirt, 
and  in  one  corner  is  a  low  table  and 
three  or  four  well-worn  cane-seat  chairs. 
99 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

There  are  dirty  bottles  on  the  shelves 
and  coarse  prints  of  bull  fighters  hang 
upon  the  walls,  while  behind  the  bar  is 
the  keeper  of  the  resort,  a  low  browed 
ruffian,  with  little  weazel  eyes  set  close 
together,  and  a  knife  slash  across  his 
unshaven  cheek.  He  looks  a  prince  of 
cut-throats,  but  even  he  has  a  kindly 
greeting,  and  a  civil  word,  as  do  the 
group  of  "sports"  who  lean  upon  the  bar. 
Those  "toughs"  of  Seville  are  not  unlike 
their  Bowery  prototypes.  They  have 
the  same  hangdog  features  and  swagger- 
ing manner,  and  their  heads  hang  for- 
ward and  their  elbows  are  thrown  out  as 
they  are  in  New  York.  Their  hats  are 
tipped  over  their  eyes  too,  and  were  it 
not  for  the  short  braided  jackets  and 
the  gaudy  sashes,  the  tight  corduroy 
trousers,  and  the  array  of  coster-like 
buttons,  one  might  expect  to  hear  them 
exclaim,  in  the  language  of  Chimmie 
Fadden,  "What  f  ell." 

But  the  Sevillian  of  a  more  respect- 
able  class  is  more  entertaining.      The 

IOO 


Seville  the  Fair 

honest  workman,  out  for  a  holiday  with 
his  best  girl,  or  the  bourgeois  and  his 
friends  picnicking  in  the  environs  under 
the  shade  of  olive  tree — these  true  An- 
dalusians  will  always  welcome  a  stran- 
ger; they  will  share  their  sour  wine  and 
sweet  cakes,  and  the  bright-eyed  girls  of 
the  party  will  dance  the  graceful  Sevil- 
lana  to  the  time  of  castanets,  and  if  you 
speak  Spanish  you  may  chat  with  them 
all,  and  feel  when  you  leave  that  you 
have  met  real  friends.  No,  there  are  no 
people  as  friendly  and  witty  and  gracious 
as  the  Andalusians.  And  all  that  re- 
minds one  that  perhaps  the  most  delight- 
ful of  Sevillian  days  are  those  when  one 
takes  a  carriage  and  drives  into  the 
country,  say  to  Italica,  where  there  are 
the  ruins  of  a  Roman  amphitheatre. 
The  horses  are  harnessed  in  the  Anda- 
lusian  fashion,  with  jangling  bells  and 
streaming  ribbons ;  the  little  driver  sits 
erect  upon  his  box,  his  broad  brimmed 
hat  a-tilt,  not  a  crease  in  his  short  Anda- 
lusian  jacket.  Over  the  hard,  tree-lined 

101 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

road  the  tough  little  beasts  scamper, 
and  you  lean  back  against  the  cushion, 
and  breathe  in  the  perfect  air.  And 
what  a  succession  of  charming  scenes. 
Quaint  villages  of  a  single  street,  and 
houses  of  a  single  story,  the  walls  of  white- 
washed stone,  or  mud  and  brick,  thatched 
with  faggots,  with  cool  shady  porches 
where  skinny  men  doze  in  low  chairs,  and 
sunny  spots  where  groups  of  loafers  are 
playing  cards.  Women  are  washing  in  the 
streams,  strings  of  donkeys  come  and  go, 
their  little  backs  bending  under  the 
weight  of  panniers  of  pottery;  meek 
horses  amble  by  bearing  a  man  astride 
and  a  woman  sidewise ;  goats,  pigs,  gypsy 
girls  dancing  by  the  wayside;  soldiers, 
beggars,  a  drunkard  sleeping  in  the  sun, 
and  beyond  it  all  the  green  rolling  fields 
tufted  with  brown  olive  trees,  the  silvery 
river,  and  graceful  Seville  outlined  against 
the  blue  sky,  with  her  Giralda  and  her 
fifty  church  towers,  her  lanky  chimneys 
and  her  shining  walls  of  white. 

Before    you    know    it    an    hour    has 

102 


Seville  the  Fair 

passed,  and  you  have  reached  the  amphi- 
theatre. It  is  like  other  ruins  of  the 
kind,  grey  rocks  crumbling  and  moss- 
grown,  rising  in  tiers  of  seats,  with 
the  arena  and  the  cages  for  the  beasts 
below.  Donkeys  browse  upon  the  hill- 
side, peasants  bask  in  the  sun  and 
in  the  shade,  just  under  the  walls  of 
what  may  have  been  the  podium  where 
the  Roman  magistrates  sat,  a  party  of 
picnickers  are  dancing  the  Sevillana  to 
the  time  of  Castanet  and  tambourine, 
and  the  echo  of  the  accompanying  song 
swells  across  the  amphitheatre.  Some 
of  the  men  come  forward  to  offer  glasses 
of  manzanilla,  and  exchange  the  day's 
greetings.  It  is  not  a  tip  they  are  after; 
to  offer  one  would  be  an  insult;  they  are 
prompted  purely  by  the  spirit  of  goodfel- 
lowship.  You  laugh  and  talk  with  them 
and  exchange  a  cigarillo  for  the  drink, 
and  then  picking  some  wayside  flowers 
you  offer  them  to  the  girls.  They  smile 
and  show  their  pretty  teeth,  and  dance 
again,  not  the  vulgar  flamenco  or  tango, 
103 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

but  the  charming  dance  of  the  province, 
with  its  agile  movements  and  graceful 
poses.  It  is  hard  to  realize  that  in  that 
peaceful  arena  some  two  thousand  years 
ago,  wild  beasts  fought  and  the  blood 
of  gladiators  stained  the  sand. 

That  is  one  of  the  excursions  into  the 
country,  and  there  are  many  others. 
The  daily  drive,  however,  is  to  Las 
Delicias,  the  tree-lined  promenade  along 
the  river  bank,  where  society  turns  out 
in  French  built  carriages  and  gazes 
enviously  at  each  other  for  an  hour  or  so 
each  afternoon.  Driving  along  the 
river  front,  with  its  stone  quays  and  rail- 
ways, its  shipping  and  its  stevedores, 
one  passes  the  orange-colored  Torre  del 
Oro  (Tower  of  Gold),  where  the  Moors 
stood  guard,  and  Peter  the  Cruel  con- 
fined his  fallen  favorites,  and  then  on 
the  left  the  red  palace  of  San  Telmo, 
with  its  delightful  gardens  of  oranges 
and  citrons,  palms  and  tropical  plants, 
where  the  Infanta  Maria  Luisa  lives. 
This  princess  is  mother  of  the  Countess 
104 


Seville  the  Fair 

of  Paris,  and  of  Don  Antonio,  who  fig- 
ured in  America  as  the  husband  of  the 
Infanta  Eulalia.  She  is  better  known, 
perhaps,  as  the  widowed  Duchess  of 
Montpensier.  Her  life  is  quiet  enough 
now,  but  it  must  have  been  different  when 
her  husband  was  alive,  for  he  was  the 
arch  intriguer,  only  excelled  by  his 
mother-in-law,  Maria  Christina,  the 
queen  of  Ferdinand  Seventh,  and 
mother  of  Isabella  Second.  But  if  one 
begins  talking  of  the  palace  intriguers 
in  the  age  of  the  Camarillas  there  will 
be  no  end.  This  widowed  duchess,  and 
old  Queen  Isabella,  living  away  off  in 
Paris,  are  about  all  that  are  left  from 
the  disgraceful  days  of  Espartero  and 
O'Donnell,  Serrano  and  Marvaez,  when 
palace  favorites  were  overturning  minis- 
tries at  will,  and  the  country  was  going 
to  the  dogs.  The  government  of  to-day 
has  much  to  learn,  but  the  improvement 
that  some  twenty  years  have  brought  is 
marvelous. 

But   to  return  to    the    palace    of    San 
105 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Telmo.  It  marks  the  beginning  of  Las 
Delicias,  and  there  the  "quality"  of 
Seville  drive,  ride  and  walk.  Las  Deli- 
cias is  not  a  park;  it  is  merely  a  long 
straight  drive,  skirted  by  gardens  and 
villas  on  the  one  hand,  by  the  river  and 
a  narrow  strip  of  land,  laid  out  with 
trees  and  walks,  upon  the  other.  There 
is  but  little  of  the  national  life  to  be  seen 
there;  mostly  Parisian  bonnets  and 
Parisian  gowns,  artificial  complexions 
and  artificial  smiles,  a  very  minute  pro- 
duction of  the  Bois.  But  occasionally 
a  family  of  the  older  Spanish  school  rum- 
bles by,  their  lumbering  coach  drawn  by 
mules,  their  dark  Spanish  faces  adorned 
with  mantillas;  the  mother  fat  and 
greasy,  the  daughters  slim  and  demure, 
and  all  with  incipient  mustaches.  There 
are  the  four-in-hands  from  the  country, 
too,  with  jangling  bells,  gaily  padded 
collars  and  bobbing  tassels  on  the 
bridles,  which  roll  through  the  drive  at  a 
swinging  gait,  and  some  of  the  splendid 
saddle-horses,  with  their  arched  necks  and 
106 


Seville  the  Fair 

well  turned  limbs,  are  ridden  in  Andalu- 
sian  style,  with  light  padded  saddles  and 
Moorish  stirrups,  and  the  bridle  orna- 
mented by  a  network  of  braided  tassels. 
The  men  who  ride  them  are  Spanish  too, 
with  their  broad  brimmed  hats  and 
smart  braided  jackets,  and  perhaps  you 
meet  a  high  break  with  a  load  of  bull 
fighters,  their  hair  braided  in  short  cues, 
or  some  women  of  rapid  tendencies, 
dressed  a  la  bolera,  and  driving  a  trap  in 
Spanish  style;  but  most  of  the  carriages 
are  those  of  Paris,  and  there  is  a  sprink- 
ling of  smart  hussars  and  gunners,  in 
their  uniforms  of  blue  and  gold. 

But  the  society  of  Seville  is  provincial 
and  dull ;  there  are  very  few  balls,  and 
dinners,  except  amongst  intimate  friends 
in  a  quiet  way,  are  almost  unknown;  in 
fact,  but  few  houses  possess  the  neces- 
sary paraphernalia  for  the  giving  of  a 
dinner,  and  in  the  event  of  such  an  enter- 
tainment being  necessary,  the  resources 
of  the  Hotel  de  Madrid  are  called  into 
service.  The  Sevillians  drive  in  the 
107 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

park,  and  they  go  to  the  opera;  they 
visit  each  other  on  feast  days,  and  they 
call  after  a  death  in  the  family;  but  they 
have  very  little  of  the  social  life  which 
characterizes  an  American  city,  or  even 
Madrid.  The  nobility  of  the  provinces 
are  intensely  proud,  so  they  live  with  a 
great  deal  of  outward  pretense;  their 
carriages  are  superb,  they  have  enor- 
mous palaces,  with  numerous  liveried 
flunkies  to  usher  one  in;  they  all  have 
their  boxes  at  the  opera,  but  they  live 
most  simply.  The  last  extravagance 
in  which  an  American  indulges  is  an 
opera  box,  it  is  the  first  necessity  of  a 
Sevillian;  the  conditions  of  life  are  re- 
versed. To  a  stranger  the  Sevillian 
nobleman  is  very  courteous,  he  invites 
you  to  drive  in  the  park,  he  takes  you 
to  his  club  and  to  his  box  at  the  opera, 
he  sends  you  flowers,  but  a  dinner,  that 
universal  courtesy  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  is 
not  forthcoming  until  you  know  him  ex- 
tremely well,  and  then  you  dine  en  fam- 
ille.  Once  only  during  the  year  does 
108 


Seville  the  Fair 

the  society  of  Seville  throw  aside  its 
sombre  aspect  and  indulge  in  frivolity. 
That  is  during  Holy  Week  and  the  fair 
which  follows.  Then  Seville  is  en  flte, 
the  society  of  Madrid  are  its  guests, 
and  people  flock  there  from  all  of  Spain 
and  Europe.  There  is  a  round  of  enter- 
tainments, the  ladies  of  Seville  have 
booths  at  the  fair  for  the  amusement  of 
their  friends,  they  even  assume  the  na- 
tional costumes  and  dance  the  national 
dances;  but  when  it  is  over  they  drop 
back  to  their  prosaic  life  with  its  daily 
drive  in  Las  Delicias. 

The  houses  of  the  nobility  of  Seville 
are  veritable  palaces.  They  are  all  built 
on  much  the  same  plan.  There  is  a 
cool,  delightful  patio,  or  central  court 
open  to  the  blue  sky  and  sunlight,  with 
marble  columns  and  Moorish  arches, 
playing  fountains  and  groups  of  palms 
and  foliage  plants.  Divans,  easy  chairs, 
and  rugs  are  scattered  about  invit- 
ingly, and  during  the  hot  summer 
days  the  family  live  there  mostly,  and 
109 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

sleep  in  the  lower  rooms  away  from  the 
heat,  while  in  winter  they  retire  to  the 
floor  above.  The  staircase  is  always 
imposing.  The  steps  are  of  marble, 
and  the  walls  of  shining  tiles,  while  the 
family  arms  are  usually  emblazoned 
on  the  ceiling.  There  are  but  two 
stories,  and  on  the  floor  above,  surround- 
ing the  court,  or  series  of  courts,  for 
there  are  often  several,  are  the  drawing 
room  with  its  satin  and  gold  furniture, 
the  library,  the  dining  room,  with  carved 
oak  wainscoting  and  high  back  chairs, 
the  family  chapel,  with  its  little  altar 
and  its  cushioned  prie-dieu,  its  pictures 
of  saints  and  burning  candles,  and  then 
the  sleeping  rooms  of  the  family  and 
domestic  offices.  Some  of  these  houses 
possess  rare  art  treasures,  and  walking 
about  with  the  host,  it  is  no  unusual 
thing  to  have  him  call  attention  in  a 
careless  way  to  some  rare  Murillo  or 
Van  Dyke. 

All  this,  however,  is  of  the  town  and 
people.     One  forgets  the  glorious  monu- 


Seville  the  Fair 

ments  of  Seville,  the  scores  of  churches, 
the  picture  gallery,  where  are  many  of 
Murillo's  masterpieces,  the  plateresque 
Town  Hall  from  the  time  of  Charles  V., 
rich  in  medallions,  pilasters,  archivaults, 
and  friezes  of  superb  design ;  the  Casa  de 
Pilatus,  the  Lonja;  the  huge  tobacco 
factory,  where  five  thousand  ugly,  dirty 
women,  vaunted  as  beautiful,  roll  cigars 
and  cigarettes  and  nurse  their  sickly 
babies.  All  these  and  many  others  are 
the  sights  of  Seville,  where  crowds  of 
tourists  flock  to  gape  and  wonder. 
Each,  perhaps,  is  worthy  of  a  chapter  by 
itself,  of  the  guide  book  sort,  with  dates 
and  details ;  but  one  who  loves  the  pictur- 
esque cares  more  for  the  people  and  the 
streets,  the  donkeys  and  the  beggars. 
There  is  one  monument,  however, 
which  is  unique.  It  is  the  Moorish 
Alcazar,  with  its  castellated  walls,  red 
and  moss-grown,  its  portal  blazoned 
with  the  arms  of  Castile  and  Leon,  re- 
plete with  historical  memories  of  the 
Moorish  kings  of  Seville;  Saint  Ferdi- 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

nand,  the  conqueror ;  Peter,  "the  Cruel  " 
or  "the  Just,"  according  to  one's  sym- 
pathies; and  Maria  de  Padilla,  his  dark- 
eyed  mistress.  There  one  can  wander 
by  the  hour  through  the  maze  of  Moorish 
rooms,  gorgeous  with  ivory  and  gold, 
brilliant  with  color.  The  palace  has 
been  restored  and  one  sees  the  Moorish 
architecture  glittering  and  vivid  as  it 
was  in  former  days.  The  repairs  have 
been  done  in  a  paltry  manner,  however, 
and  paint  too  often  takes  the  place  of 
porcelain,  but  the  palace  with  its  pil- 
larets  of  precious  marble,  its  arches 
and  azulejos,  its  stalactite  ceilings  and 
intricate  stucco  work,  delicate  as  a  pat- 
tern of  finest  lace,  is  beautiful  and 
splendid.  When  the  sunlight  streams 
through  the  miradores  there  is  a  dazzling 
profusion  of  color;  green,  red,  brown 
and  gold,  but  one  prefers  the  delicate 
Alhambra,  where  time  has  faded  the 
colors  and  the  harsh  hand  of  the  restorer 
has  left  the  walls  untouched. 

It  is  in  the  charming  gardens  of  the 


Seville  the  Fair 

Alcazar  that  one  tarries  longest.  There 
the  orange  and  the  citron  grow  and  the 
air  is  sweet  with  the  odor  of  flowers; 
the  sunlight  casts  cool  shadows  upon 
the  moss-grown  pavements  and  the 
stuccoed  walls;  while  surrounding  one  in 
maze-like  confusion  are  close-cropped 
hedges  of  myrtle,  and  cypresses  cut  in 
fantastic  forms.  There  are  magnolias 
and  sweet  lemons,  and  the  towering 
forms  of  graceful  palms;  there  are  Moor- 
ish kiosks  and  moss-grown  fountains 
where  water  trickles  from  the  mouths  of 
lions  and  gold  fish  glitter.  The  air  is 
balmy  and  soft,  and  soothed  by  the  gentle 
stirring  of  the  leaves,  one  dreams  the 
hours  away,  thinking  of  Seville  the  Fair, 
and  its  departed  glory — of  the  days  of 
Peter  and  Charles  the  Great,  when 
cavaliers  and  courtiers  wandered  in 
those  gardens  and  the  laughter  of  dark- 
eyed  favorites  echoed  through  the  leaves. 


113 


Spanish  Sports. 

IT  is  impossible  to  defend  the  national 
sport  of  Spain.  Undeniably  cruel, 
it  is  at  the  same  time  fascinating,  excit- 
ing and  alluring;  in  short,  the  finest 
spectacle  of  modern  days,  comparable 
only  to  gladiatorial  shows  of  ancient 
Rome.  The  sandy  arena,  with  its  array 
of  glittering  toreadors,  the  tier  upon  tier 
of  seats,  crowded  with  excited  faces;  the 
beautiful  women  with  their  graceful 
white  mantillas;  the  uniforms  of  sol- 
diers, the  glaring  sunlight,  the  blue 
canopy  of  sky  above  the  amphitheatre, 
combine  in  forming  a  picture  never  to 
be  forgotten.  The  tragedy,  too,  where 
the  skill  and  daring  of  man  is  matched 
against  the  most  ferocious  brute  in  the 
world,  fascinates  while  it  disgusts,  and 
appeals  in  quick  succession  to  one's  pity, 
anger  and  inborn  love  of  contest. 
114 


A    TOREADOR 


Spanish  Sports 

While  condemning  the  sport  from  the 
moralist's  standpoint,  it  is  easy  to  under- 
stand its  hold  upon  the  populace.  A 
liberal  Spaniard  once  said  to  the  writer 
that  so  long  as  there  were  priests  and 
bull-fights  in  Spain,  the  country  could 
not  progress.  There  is  much  truth  in 
the  remark,  although  generalizations  are 
usually  too  sweeping.  However,  so  far 
as  bull-fights  are  concerned,  the  country 
would  unquestionably  be  better  without 
them.  But  from  the  picturesque  stand- 
point Spain  without  corridas  de  toros 
would  not  be  Spain. 

No  country  in  the  world  has  a  national 
sport  so  typical  or  so  thoroughly  a  part 
of  the  national  life.  Yet,  like  American 
base-ball,  bull-fighting  has  degenerated. 
It  is  no  longer  a  sport  for  gentlemen 
alone,  but  a  hippodrome  performance 
in  which  the  actors  are  hired  ruffians. 
In  that,  too,  it  resembles  the  gladiator- 
ial sports  of  Rome;  but  although  Hispa- 
nia  Romana  was  the  most  Roman  of  all 
the  provinces,  and  the  Spaniard  is  the 
"5 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

most  Latin  of  modern  Europeans,  it  is 
questionable  whether  bull-fighting  has 
any  connection  with  the  sports  of  Rome 
beyond  an  undoubted  similarity. 

On  the  contrary  there  is  much  evi- 
dence to  prove  that  corridas  de  toros 
were  unknown  in  Spain  until  the  coming 
of  the  Moors.  Suetonius,  Pliny  and 
other  Latin  writers  who  described  in 
detail  Spanish  games  in  the  arena, 
make  no  mention  of  combats  between 
bulls  and  men,  and  most  authorities 
agree  in  stating  that  bull-baiting  is  a 
survival  of  the  African  and  Moorish 
custom  of  hunting  live  boars.  There  is 
frequent  mention  in  the  early  Spanish 
chronicles  of  the  public  baiting  of  eer- 
Jos,  and  with  the  spread  of  agriculture, 
the  bull  undoubtedly  formed  a  more  ac- 
cessible and  more  formidable  adversary. 
But  if  bull-fighting  is  not  of  Roman 
origin  it  is  decidedly  of  Roman  charac- 
ter, and  the  Spanish  people,  for  centu- 
ries the  most  Latin  of  Roman  provin- 
cials, still  possess  enough  of  Roman 
1x6 


Spanish  Sports 

character  to  take  kindly  to  a  sport  so 
thoroughly,  in  sentiment  at  least,  a 
heritage  from  imperial  Rome. 

Bull-fighting  was  probably  well  estab- 
lished in  the  peninsula  as  early  as  the 
eleventh  century,  but  the  first  Fiesta  de 
Toros  recorded  was  the  one  which  took 
place  at  Avila  in  1107  on  the  occasion  of 
the  marriage  of  Blasco  Munoz.  There 
Moors  and  Christians  vied  with  each 
other  in  prowess,  and  in  succeeding  ages 
Fiestas  became  part  of  the  national  festi- 
vities. In  the  early  days  of  bull-fight- 
ing the  sport  was  confined  to  knights  and 
gentlemen.  Like  the  tourney  it  became 
the  means  of  testing  knightly  prowess. 
There  was  no  fighting  on  foot,  and  the 
horses  used  were  splendid  chargers, 
trained  to  move  quickly  and  avoid  the 
onslaught  of  the  savage  beast.  It  was 
in  every  sense  a  magnificent  sport,  test- 
ing the  skill  of  both  horse  and  rider. 

Peter  the  Cruel,  as  his  name  implies, 
was  a  lover  of  the  sport,  and  carried  his 
ferocity  so  far  that  at  Burgos,  in  1351, 
117 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

he  had  the  murdered  body  of  Garcilazo 
de  la  Vega  thrown  from  his  palace  win- 
dow into  the  great  public  square  to  be 
trampled  upon  by  the  bulls.  But  the 
great  patron  of  bull-fighting  in  the  middle 
ages  was  King  John  II.,  or  rather  his 
clever  minister  and  master,  Alvaro  de 
Luna,  the  best  lance,  the  most  accom- 
plished courtier  of  Spain.  During  this 
reign  a  bull-ring  was  established  at  Mad- 
rid, the  shows  became  more  costly,  the 
flower  of  the  nobility  vied  with  Moorish 
cavaliers,  and  torear  a  cavallo  was  con- 
sidered an  indispensable  accomplishment 
of  every  knight. 

Be  it  said  to  the  credit  of  Isabella  the 
Catholic,  that  she  would  never  witness  a 
bull-fight,  and  was  only  induced  to  aban- 
don her  intention  of  prohibiting  the  sport 
by  a  promise  on  the  part  of  the  noble 
bull -fighters  that  the  horns  of  the  bull 
should  be  blunted  and  rendered  harmless 
by  encasing  them  in  leather  shields,  as 
is  done  in  Portugal  to-day. 

Bull  -  fighting  flourished  under  the 
uS 


Spanish  Sports 

house  of  Austria,  and  the  Fiesta  given 
by  Philip  IV.  on  the  occasion  of  the  visit 
of  Charles,  Prince  of  Wales,  in  1623,  was 
one  of  unusual  brilliance.  With  the 
arrival  of  the  Bourbons,  however,  French 
tastes  and  fashions  took  possession  of 
the 'court,  and  bull -fighting  like  every- 
thing else  that  was  Spanish  fell  into  dis- 
favor at  court,  and  was  abandoned  to 
the  common  people.  It  was  then  that 
the  art  of  fighting  on  foot  supplanted  the 
braver  sport  of  torear  a  cavallo. 

There  were  a  few  Fiestas  given  by  the 
Bourbons  to  appease  the  popular  appe- 
tite, but  bull -fighting  degenerated  and 
became  a  rough  and  tumble  scramble  or 
mere  bull -baiting.  Then  the  class  of 
professional  matadors  sprang  up,  first 
among  whom  were  Francisco  de  Romero 
and  the  brothers  Juan  and  Pedro  Palomo, 
living  in  the  early  part  of  the  eighteenth 
century.  But  the  master  spirit  who  es- 
tablished the  code  of  tauromachian 
honor,  practically  as  it  exists  to-day,  and 
reorganized  the  sport  on  popular  lines, 
119 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

was  Jose"  Delgado  Candido,  known  to  the 
populace  as  Pepe  Illo,  who  died  in  the 
plaza  at  Port  St.  Mary  on  the  24th  of 
June,  1771. 

It  was  reserved,  however,  for  that  de- 
generate despot  Ferdinand  VII.  to  re- 
generate the  national  sport  by  inducing 
the  dissipated  nobles  of  his  court  to 
enter  the  arena  in  emulation  of  the 
knights  of  Alvaro  de  Luna.  But  Ferdi- 
nand did  not  stop  there.  The  very  day 
that  he  abolished  the  University  of 
Seville  he  granted  a  royal  charter  for 
the  establishment  of  a  tauromachian 
academy  in  the  Andalusian  capital. 
That  academy  exists  to-day,  and  Seville 
is  the  centre  of  the  bull-fighting  world. 
The  bull-fighting  academy  is  situated  in 
the  suburbs  of  Seville,  near  the  quarter  of 
the  tobacco  girls,  a  wise  situation  from 
the  standpoint  of  affiliation.  It  is  sup- 
plied with  a  miniature  bull-ring  where  the 
students  may  practice  the  tauromachian 
art,  and  in  addition  there  are  stables, 
sleeping  rooms,  a  restaurant  and  other 

120 


Spanish  Sports 

appliances  for  rendering  this  "Univer- 
sity" perfect  of  its  kind. 

Bull-fights  are  expensive  luxuries,  cost- 
ing in  the  neighborhood  of  $2,000,  so 
that,  except  on  rare  occasions,  they  are 
given  only  in  Madrid  and  the  provincial 
capitals.  The  season  commences  after 
Lent  and  closes  in  the  autumn,  Sunday 
being  the  day  usually  chosen  for  the 
sport.  The  profits  of  the  bull  fight  are 
often  destined  for  the  support  of  hos- 
pitals, and  with  unintentional  irony  a 
fight  was  once  held  in  Madrid  for  the 
benefit  of  the  society  for  the  prevention 
of  cruelty  to  animals.  The  larger  plazas 
are  under  the  superintendence  of  a  society 
of  noblemen  and  gentlemen  called  maes- 
tranzas,  established  by  Philip  II.  in  1562 
for  the  purpose  of  improving  the  breed 
of  Spanish  horses.  The  king  is  the  her- 
mano  mayor,  or  elder  brother  of  these 
tauromachian  societies.  They  are  known 
as  the  maestranzas  of  Ronda,  Seville, 
Granada,  Valencia  and  Saragossa,  the 
latter  having  been  established  by  Ferdi- 

121 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

nand  VII.  as  the  city's  reward  for  its 
heroic  defense  against  the  French.  The 
maestrantes  of  each  city  are  distin- 
guished by  striking  uniforms,  and  as  the 
members  must  be  of  "gentle  blood,  the 
honor  of  membership  is  much  sought. 

The  breeding  of  bulls  for  the  ring  is  a 
great  industry,  and  so  carefully  have  the 
savage  traits  of  the  Spanish  bull  been 
cultivated  that  the  animal  is  undoubt- 
edly the  most  courageous  beast  in  the 
world.  There  have  been  several  fights 
in  Madrid  in  which  bulls  were  pitted 
against  lions,  tigers,  panthers  and  even 
elephants.  The  bulls  were  invariably 
the  victors,  except  in  the  case  of  one 
famous  elephant  who  developed  a  mar- 
velous adroitness  in  defending  himself 
with  his  tusks.  The  best  breed  of  bulls 
are  those  of  the  Duke  of  Veragua.  His 
ganadero  is  situated  near  Toledo  and  it 
is  said  that  when  the  railway  was  first 
built  there,  the  bulls  attacked  the  loco- 
motive without  the  slightest  hesitation. 
The  operation  of  driving  the  bulls  se- 

122 


Spanish  Sports 

lected  for  the  ring  from  the  country  to 
the  plaza  is  almost  as  exciting  as  the 
fight  itself.  The  bulls  are  enticed  by 
tame  oxen,  ' '  cabestros, ' '  into  a  road 
barricaded  on  both  sides  and  driven  at 
full  speed  to  the  plaza  by  mounted  con- 
ocedores.  The  horsemen  are  armed  with 
long  lance -like  poles,  and  the  bulls  are 
encouraged  by  shouts  and  cries.  Crowds 
are  out  to  welcome  the  toros,  and  many 
a  beggar  who  cannot  afford  the  entrance 
price  to  the  arena,  struggles  for  a  front 
place  at  the  encierro,  and  vents  his  hos- 
tility to  the  bull  by  taking  a  sly  poke  at 
one  of  the  doomed  animals. 

Bull-baiting  seems  irresistible  to  the 
Spaniard  of  all  classes,  and  even  the 
children  play  at  the  national  sport  in 
imitation  of  their  elders. 

The  bull-fight  is  to  Madrid  what  the 
Grand  Prix  is  to  Paris  or  the  Derby  to 
London.  No  gayer,  sprightlier  crowd 
could  be  imagined  than  Spaniards  on 
the  way  to  the  plaza  de  toros;  women 
with  their  white  mantillas  and  large 
"3 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

combs,  their  fans  and  their  gay  gar- 
ments; men  with  broad-brimmed  hats 
and  short  braided  jackets;  bull  fighters 
in  carriages,  cheered  by  the  crowd  as 
they  pass  along;  picadors  on  horseback; 
soldiers,  guardia  civiles,  street  urchins, 
beggars,  mules,  donkeys  and  everything 
characteristic  of  the  peninsula,  are  there 
hurrying  merrily  towards  the  arena,  all 
happy,  good  natured  and  keenly  inter- 
ested in  the  national  sport. 

Inside  the  amphitheatre  the  scene  is 
even  more  spectacular.  The  crowds  of 
aficionados,  or  "  rooters"  as  they 
would  be  called  in  America,  are  seating 
themselves  on  the  stone  benches,  argu- 
ing, betting  and  discussing  the  sport  in 
the  peculiar  vernacular  of  the  bull-ring. 
Peddlers  are  selling  oranges,  shrimps 
and  aguardiente;  the  band  is  playing; 
beautiful  women  survey  the  scene  from 
the  upper  tier  of  boxes,  their  black  eyes 
flashing  with  enthusisam.  The  effect  of 
color  and  light,  the  animation  of  the 
scene,  are  incomparable. 
124 


Spanish  Sports 

But  the  pageant  is  at  its  height  when 
the  trumpets  blare  and  the  toreadors  in 
all  their  glittering  gorgeousness  march 
solemnly  across  the  arena  and  salute  the 
president.  There  are  matadors,  chulos, 
banderilleros  and  picadors,  the  dramatis 
personae  of  the  bull  ring,  headed  by 
the  alguazil  or  constable,  whose  sombre 
black  garments  are  in  funereal  contrast 
to  the  bright  costumes  of  the  gladiators. 
The  trumpet  sounds  again,  the  president 
throws  the  key  of  the  toril,  which  the 
alguazil  catches  in  his  hat,  unless  he  be 
unskillful,  when  he  calls  forth  the  hisses 
and  scoffs  of  the  crowd.  The  door  of 
the  den  is  opened,  the  bull  dashes 
amazed  and  startled  into  the  sandy 
arena. 

Then  the  tragedy  commences;  —  a 
tragedy  calling  forth  agility,  skill,  dar- 
ing, patient  suffering,  brutal  cruelty, 
unflinching  courage,  wild  enthusiasm. 
But  alas,  pity  is  unknown.  The  poor 
miserable  horses,  faithful  servitors  of 
man,  meet  the  ferocious  onslaught  of  the 
"5 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

bull  with  a  patience  which  is  heartrend- 
ing; their  bloody  entrails  cover  the 
sand;  they  fall  and  rise  again,  bearing 
their  brutal  riders  until  the  last  breath 
has  left  them,  without  calling  forth  the 
slightest  sign  of  pity  from  the  Spanish 
throng.  It  is  "bravo  toro,  viva  toro, "  or 
"tunante,  cobardo,  picaro, "  according  as 
the  bull  is  brave  or  poltroon. 

When  the  slaughter  of  the  horses  is 
over  and  the  skillful  play  of  the  bander- 
illos  commences,  one  shares  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  sport.  The  agility  with 
which  the  darts  are  placed  in  the  bull's 
neck  is  so  astonishing  that  one  forgets 
to  pity  the  bull  as  he  writhes  in  torture, 
and  like  the  rest  one  applauds  the  mata- 
dor or  killer  as  he  solemnly  salutes  the 
president  and  swears  to  do  his  duty. 

The  duel  which  follows  is  actually 
worthy  of  the  name  of  sport.  It  is  skill 
against  force;  intelligence  against  pas- 
sion, and  the  deliberate  play  with  which 
the  executioner  studies  the  characteris- 
tics of  his  victim  before  making  the  final 
126 


Spanish  Sports 

lunge  is  marvelously  fascinating.  If  the 
horses  could  be  banished;  if  the  man  in 
the  first  instance  could  face  the  bull 
alone  and  vanquish  him  as  he  does  after 
the  animal's  energy  is  expended  and  the 
poor  creature  only  fights  with  the  des- 
peration of  the  dying,  then  bull-fighting 
would  be  worthy  to  be  classed  as  sport. 
But  the  baiting  which  precedes  the  final 
contest,  the  torture  for  the  sake  of  tor- 
ture, the  bloodshed  for  the  sake  of  blood- 
shed, is  so  loathsome  that  one  is  dis- 
gusted with  one's  self  for  succumbing  to 
the  excitement  and  the  fascination  of 
the  final  duel. 

Bull-fighting,  however,  is  not  the  only 
blood-thirsty  sport  of  the  Spaniard,  as 
cocking  mains  are  held  every  Sunday 
morning  in  the  Andalusian  cities  in  the 
Renidero  de  Gallos  or  cockpit.  The 
crowds,  however,  are  small  and  the  sport 
is  confined  to  a  few  aficionados  who  are 
mostly  annual  subscribers.  Cock-fight- 
ing, however,  is  a  Saxon  sport  which  the 
Spaniards  have  transplanted,  and  as  the 
127 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Spanish  cocks  fight  without  artificial 
spurs  the  Spaniards  maintain  that  in  this 
respect  at  least  they  are  less  cruel  than 
the  English. 

The  Renidero  is  a  miniature  amphi- 
theatre, covered  with  a  roof.  The  seats 
are  arranged  in  tiers,  those  nearest  the 
ring  being  reserved  for  annual  subscrib- 
ers. In  the  centre  there  is  a  low  circular 
platform  covered  with  a  coarse  matting 
and  surrounded  by  an  iron  paling.  It  is 
there  that  the  fighting  takes  place. 
Suspended  from  the  roof  are  a  pair  of 
crude  scales  for  weighing  in  the  cocks, 
and  in  a  neighboring  room  are  a  number 
of  darkened  coops  where  the  birds  are 
kept  preparatory  to  the  contest. 

The  habitue's  of  the  cockpit  are  an 
interesting  lot,  sharing  the  characteris- 
tics of  the  "sporting  class"  at  home; 
low-browed  ruffians,  most  of  them,  with 
brutal  faces,  and  much  addicted  to  loud 
clothes  and  brilliant  jewelry.  One,  in 
particular,  would  have  made  a  Chicago 
alderman  jealous.  He  was  attired  in  a 
128 


Spanish  Sports 

suit  of  grey  plaid  with  broad  black  braid. 
He  wore  a  frilled  shirt  ornamented  with 
an  enormous  diamond,  and  his  jeweled 
watch  chain  was  large  enough  for  a  ship's 
cable ;  his  trousers  were  skin  tight,  with 
a  broad  black  stripe  along  the  seam, 
and  his  grey  felt  hat  with  enormous  brim 
was  ornamented  with  a  wide  black  band. 
He  was  fat,  and  his  greasy  jowls  fell  in 
folds  over  his  rakish  collar;  a  cigar  was 
cocked  between  his  lips,  and  as  a  typical 
"sport"  it  would  be  hard  to  find  his 
equal.  Upon  inquiring  his  calling  one 
learned  that  he  was  a  contractor  for  the 
meat  of  bulls  killed  in  the  arena.  There 
were  several  bull  fighters,  too,  among 
the  crowd  at  the  time  of  one's  visit,  and 
it  is  doubtful  if  an  American  prize  fight 
could  collect  a  more  representative  gath- 
ering of  the  sporting  fraternity. 

The  first  proceeding  in  the  order  of 
ceremonies  was  the  weighing  in  of  the 
cocks,  a  function  performed  with  punctil- 
ious solemnity.  Then  the  cocks,  a  white 
youngster  full  of  dash,  but  lacking  in 
129 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

experience,  and  an  old  red  veteran,  who 
had  already  lost  part  of  his  comb  and  an 
eye  in  previous  duels,  were  placed  in  the 
pit.  A  few  preliminary  flutters  and  a 
dash  or  two  at  each  other's  heads  aroused 
the  excitement  of  the  aficionados,  who 
stood  up  in  their  seats  and  made  bets 
freely,  the  veteran  cock  being  the  favor- 
ite. 

At  every  onslaught  of  the  cocks  new 
bets  were  made  and  the  enthusiasts  grew 
more  excited.  The  scene  resembled  the 
Chicago  wheat  pit,  everyone  shouting  at 
once,  each  trying  to  find  takers  for  bets 
without  missing  a  single  incident  of  the 
contest.  Meanwhile  the  cocks  attacked 
with  renewed  vigor;  feathers  flew,  blood 
flowed  freely.  The  tactics  adopted  by 
the  veteran  bird  were  worthy  of  a  higher 
intelligence.  He  let  the  youngster  make 
the  fighting  and  dodged  his  onslaughts, 
then  when  the  fury  was  spent  he  attacked 
his  retreating  foe  vigorously,  adminis- 
tering deadly  pecks  about  the  head  and 
neck.  Finally  the  younger  bird  fell  ex- 
130 


Spanish  Sports 

hausted ;  the  scarred  veteran  uttered  an 
exultant  cackle  and  jumping  upon  his 
prostrate  foe  proceeded  to  peck  out  the 
remaining  spark  of  his  life. 

After  a  knock-out  a  bird  is  allowed  two 
minutes  in  which  to  rise.  If  he  fails  to 
do  so  within  the  alloted  time,  or  if  at 
any  time  the  bird  refuses  to  fight  and 
runs  away,  his  rival  wins  the  main. 
Sometimes  the  birds  are  killed  outright; 
sometimes  they  are  temporarily  injured. 

In  an  adjoining  room  is  the  hospital 
where  the  birds  are  doctored  after  the 
fight.  Their  heads  are  bathed  in  arnica 
and  a  long  feather  is  shoved  down  the 
throat  to  remove  the  clotted  blood, 
then  the  invalid  is  placed  in  a  darkened 
coop  to  recover  as  best  he  may. 

Cock-fighting  is  a  brutal  sport  without 
the  pageantry  and  the  deeds  of  daring 
which  make  one  forget  at  moments  the 
brutality  of  the  bull  fight. 

There  is  one  Spanish  sport,  however, 
which  is  manly  and  vigorous,  a  sport 
comparable  to  the  best  of  Anglo-Saxon 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

games.  Pelota  de  Cesta,  or  basket  ball, 
though  unlike  its  Saxon  namesake,  is 
the  game  of  the  Basque  provinces,  but  is 
now  played  in  the  principal  cities  of 
Spain,  where  elaborate  buildings  have 
been  erected  for  the  accommodation  of 
the  players  and  spectators. 

Pelota  is  a  game  which  in  some  respect 
resembles  racquets.  It  is  played  in  a 
three-sided  court  about  four  times  the 
length  of  a  racquet  court;  the  ball  used 
is  similar  to  a  racquet  ball,  but  instead  of 
a  bat  the  player  has  a  basket-work  scoop 
which  fits  tightly  on  his  hand  and  fore- 
arm. The  game  is  played  with  two, 
or  sometimes  more,  on  a  side.  The 
court  is  oblong  and  enclosed  on  three 
sides.  Along  the  open  space  seats  and 
boxes  for  the  spectators  are  arranged. 
The  players  station  themselves  in  pairs 
consisting  of  opponents.  The  lighter 
men  are  about  half  way  up  the  court  and 
the  stronger  near  the  end.  The  ball  is 
played  the  long  way  of  the  court.  When 
play  commences  one  of  the  first  pair  of 
132 


Spanish  Sports 

players  serves  the  ball  against  the  op- 
posite wall,  the  other  side  endeavors  to 
return  it,  and  the  ball  remains  in  play 
until  a  miss  is  scored  for  one  of  the  con- 
tending sides.  Should  the  side  serving 
fail  to  return  the  ball  the  service  passes 
to  the  opponents.  A  miss  scores  one  for 
the  opponents  and  the  game  usually  con- 
sists of  fifty  points. 

This,  in  brief,  is  an  outline  of  the 
game.  There  are  the  usual  number  of 
rules  about  false  strokes,  fouls,  off-side 
play,  etc.,  which  accompany  games  of 
the  sort,  but  the  fundamental  principle 
of  pelota  consists  in  receiving  the  ball  in 
the  scoop  and  whacking  it  against  the 
opposite  wall.  In  that  it  is  very  simple, 
but  the  Spanish  players  display  a  mar- 
velous amount  of  agility,  and  one  does 
not  remember  to  have  seen  tennis  or 
racquets  more  skillfully  played  than  pe- 
lota as  done  by  the  best  Spanish  players. 
It  is  a  game  which  calls  for  great  agility 
and  extreme  endurance.  Play  is  so  rapid 
that  from  the  spectator's  point  of  view 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

it  is  an  extremely  interesting  perform- 
ance. 

There  are  occasional  periods  of  rest 
during  which  the  players  seat  themselves 
to  catch  their  breath.  They  wear  a  sort 
of  sandal  on  their  feet  which  they  often 
change  several  times  during  the  game. 
The  Spaniards  are  great  gamblers,  and 
bets  are  freely  exchanged  at  pelota 
matches.  Book-makers  walk  along  in 
front  of  the  spectators  offering  and  tak- 
ing wagers,  and  at  interesting  periods 
of  the  game  there  is  much  excitement. 

Unfortunately  pelota  is  played  by  pro- 
fessionals, although  there  are  some  ama- 
teur contests.  The  games  which  calls 
forth  crowds  are  those  where  the  contest- 
ants are  paid  for  their  services.  As  the 
game  is  of  northern  origin  the  best  play- 
ers are  from  Navarre  and  the  Basque 
provinces,  and  the  "boina, "  a  cap  some- 
what resembling  a  tam-o-shanter,  but 
made  of  soft  felt  and  without  the  tuft, 
the  typical  head  dress  of  the  Carlist 


'34 


Spanish  Sports 

armies,  is  invariably  worn  by  the  pelota 
players. 

Pelota  is  the  only  manly  game  the 
Spaniards  have.  It  certainly  compares 
favorably  with  the  most  athletic  of  our 
own  sports,  but  like  base  ball  it  is  robbed 
of  its  charm  by  professionalism  and 
betting.  However,  after  witnessing  a 
pelota  match  one  feels  it  is  a  game  the 
Spaniards  may  well  be  proud  of.  It  is 
a  genuine  sport,  and  one's  hope  is  that 
its  growth  may  eventually  redeem  the 
country  from  the  curse  of  bull-fights  and 
cocking  mains.  A  nation's  sports  are 
largely  typical  of  its  character,  and  a 
people  capable  of  tolerating  bull  fighting 
is  incapable  of  civilization  in  its  highest 
sense. 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

/CORDOVA  the  Magnificent,  the  seat 
\^s  of  Arab  learning,  the  birthplace 
of  Seneca,  Lucan  and  Averroes,  the 
splendid  capital  of  the  Omeyan  Khali- 
fate,  with  her  six  hundred  mosques  and 
thousand  baths,  her  eight  hundred  pub- 
lic schools  and  library  of  over  half  a 
million  volumes;  Cordova  the  single 
shrine  where  the  light  of  learning  glowed 
during  the  dark  Middle  Ages,  is  to-day 
a  sluggish  sun-baked  remnant  of  all  that 
has  gone  before.  Christian  bells  clang 
in  the  Muezzin  tower  of  Islam's  fairest 
mosque,  Christian  priests  mumble  their 
prayers  where  the  Moslem  once  turned 
his  face  to  Mecca;  but  the  city  is  a  city 
of  the  dead,  and  the  inhabitants  are 
ghouls,  if  ghouls  can  be  sluggish  and 
ambitionless,  for  the  little  vitality  they 
136 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

have  is  drawn  from  the  souls  of  the  de- 
parted. 

The  city  is,  to  be  sure,  the  capital  of 
a  province,and  one  of  the  eight  military 
centers  of  the  kingdom.  There  are,  to 
be  sure,  some  fifty  thousand  inhabitants, 
most  of  them  dark  skinned,  ragged  loit- 
erers, born  only  for  the  artist's  brush, 
but  in  Cordova,  more  perhaps  than  any- 
where else  in  Spain,  one  is  impressed 
with  the  ruin  which  has  almost  over- 
come the  land. 

Toledo  was  the  capital  of  the  Goth, 
but  there  is  little  to  mourn  for  in  the 
Goth.  Granada,  so  often  associated 
with  Moorish  Spain,  was  merely  the  last 
splendid  effort  of  a  decaying  race;  but 
Cordova,  in  its  prime,  was  the  vigorous 
epitome  of  all  that  was  strong  and  good 
in  Islam.  When  Cordova  fell  Islam  fell, 
for  no  other  city  of  the  Mohammedan 
world  has  even  attained  the  intellectual 
standard  set  by  this  capital  of  the  Ome- 
yan  Khalifs. 

The  mosque  of  Cordova,  one  begrudges 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

the  name  cathedral,  is  one  of  the  mar- 
vels of  the  world ;  the  city,  one  of  its 
mockeries.  One  might  dismiss  the  city 
with  a  word  were  it  not  that  in  spite  of 
its  dirt  and  slothfulness  it  is,  in  a  cer- 
tain sense,  fascinating.  One  enjoys  wan- 
dering through  the  narrow  tortuous 
streets,  with  their  low  whitewashed 
houses  and  dingy  little  shops,  where  the 
cobbler  or  the  coppersmith  are  at  work 
— shops  that  are  a  relic  of  Moorish  days, 
for  they  are  but  the  booths  of  an  Orien- 
tal bazaar,  Christianized  by  an  occasional 
picture  of  a  saint  or  the  Virgin.  There 
is  a  delight,  too,  in  flattening  one's  self 
against  a  wall  to  let  a  string  of  meek- 
faced  donkeys  amble  by,  even  if  one 
falls  a  prey  to  the  nearest  beggar,  who, 
taking  you  thus  at  a  disadvantage, 
thrusts  some  festered  wound  or  handless 
arm  under  your  very  nose. 

The  beggars  of  Spain !     They  deserve 
a  passing  tribute,   not  to  their  filth,  or 
their  persistency,   but  to   their   courtli- 
ness, for  each  one,   if  he  were  washed 
138 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

and  dressed  in  silks  and  satins,  and 
given  a  wand  of  office,  might  fill  the  post 
of  royal  chamberlain. 

There  is  a  charm,  however,  to  the 
streets  of  Cordova  in  spite  of  the  beg- 
gars, which  almost  makes  you  forget 
the  glories  of  the  Khalifate.  The  older 
portion  of  the  town  presents  that  strange 
blending  of  the  Oriental  and  the  Occi- 
dental which  is  so  typical  of  the  cities  of 
southern  Spain.  There  are  the  narrow 
ill-paved  streets,  the  low  flat -roofed 
houses  with  their  hanging  balconies  and 
•white-washed  walls  you  see  to-day  in 
Morocco,  but  instead  of  mosque  and 
minaret,  there  is  the  cold,  stern  fagade 
of  the  parish  church;  instead  of  the 
white  burnoose  of  the  Arab  the  black 
robe  of  the  priest.  There  is  scarcely  a 
straight  street  in  Cordova,  and  very  few 
wide  enough  for  two  carriages  to  pass. 
The  plan  of  the  city  is  like  one  of  those 
mazes  where  you  wander  about  for  hours 
unable  to  find  your  way  out,  and  always 
returning  to  the  starting  point.  In 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

roaming  through  the  old  town  you  stum- 
ble upon  many  relics  of  Roman  or 
Moor,  many  a  graceful  archway  with 
its  iron  grill  where  a  glimpse  is  caught 
of  some  cool  shady  patio  with  palms  and 
oranges,  and  a  fountain  splashing  lazily 
in  its  alabaster  basin.  Here  and  there 
in  the  maze  of  streets  are  the  imposing 
fa9ades  of  patrician  houses  with  carved 
escutcheons  and  sombre  warriors  of 
stone,  standing  guard  in  pillared  niches. 
The  most  impressive  of  these  portals  is 
that  of  the  Casa  de  los  Paez,  now  a  poly- 
thenic  school  and  a  station  of  the  electric 
lighting  company.  It  is  the  irony  of  fate 
to  find  a  network  of  wires  spanning  the 
court  of  this  relic  of  an  ancient  family. 
Perhaps  by  chance  you  may  extricate 
yourself  from  the  network  of  crooked 
streets  and  enter  the  Calle  del  Gran 
Capitan,  a  broad,  dusty  boulevard  lined 
with  theatres  and  modern  buildings.  It 
is  straight  and  new,  and  like  all  things 
new  in  Spain,  it  is  ugly ;  but  the  Cordo- 
van points  with  pride  to  this  street  and 
140 


CASA    DE    LOS    PAEZ 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

the  Paseo  beyond  as  an  evidence  that 
his  city  is  progressive.  It  is  progress- 
ive, if  a  few  straight  streets  lined  with 
stuccoed  houses  and  ateliers  painted 
purple  and  pink  constitute  progress. 
There  is  a  park,  too,  laid  out  with  op- 
pressive regularity,  where  the  municipal 
band  plays  on  Sundays  with  fifteen  min- 
ute intervals  between  the  pieces  for  the 
musicians  to  loiter  about  and  smoke. 
Soldiers  and  housemaids  gather  there, 
and  perhaps  a  carriage  or  two  of  the 
nobility,  with  an  attempt  at  style  in  the 
form  of  tarnished  gold  lace  and  well-worn 
liveries;  but  you  turn  in  disgust  from 
this  modern  Cordova,  and  hailing  a  cab 
drive  away  from  all  those  signs  of  pro- 
gress back  to  the  old  town,  where  the 
streets  are  paved  with  cobbles  and  the 
white  Moorish  houses  are  outlined  against 
the  blue  sky.  In  your  heart  you  wish 
that  Spain  might  sleep  on  forever,  the 
awakening  is  so  harsh  and  material,  so 
ill-suited  to  a  land  of  memories. 

The  streets  are  so    narrow   that   the 
141 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

cabman  takes  a  circuitous  route  around 
the  walls,  past  gates  of  tapia  and  castel- 
lated turrets,  square  or  octagon,  where 
the  Moorish  sentry  once  paced  his 
weary  beat.  The  Moor  is  gone,  but 
there  are  barrack  yards,  where  Christian 
recruits,  undersized  and  awkward,  are 
drilling  for  the  battle-fields  of  Cuba.  It 
is  pitiful  to  watch  them,  they  are  so  ig- 
norant, so  docile,  mere  boys,  whipped 
into  shape  by  their  brutish  officers,  and 
then  packed  off  to  Cuba  like  so  many 
sheep. 

There  is  a  chapel  in  the  suburbs 
erected  to  a  virgin  of  supposed  healing 
powers.  It  is  a  place  typical  of  Spanish 
superstition.  Locks  of  hair,  crutches, 
bandages,  babies'  clothes  and  every  con- 
ceivable emblem  of  the  cures  effected  by 
the  miraculous  virgin,  have  been  hung 
upon  the  outer  walls  by  grateful  conval- 
escents. There  are  scores  of  crude 
paintings,  too,  representing  the  Virgin 
appearing  to  bedridden  sufferers  and 
bidding  them  rise  and  walk.  Such 
142 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

places  make  one  understand  more  read- 
ily the  power  of  the  priestcraft  and  the 
seemingly  hopeless  superstition  of  the 
common  people.  But  the  Virgin  of  the 
Holy  Fountain  is  charmingly  domiciled. 
There  is  a  garden  surrounding  her 
chapel  with  oranges  and  roses  in  abund- 
ance, and  the  old  crone  in  attendance 
gives  one  a  bouquet  and  readily  accepts 
a  propina  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  one 
is  a  heretic.  Passing  out  of  the  gate 
one  notices  a  crude  painting  of  a  soul  in 
purgatory,  and  fancies  the  grateful 
crone  buying  masses  for  the  salvation 
of  her  relatives.  To  what  better  use 
could  the  coppers  of  unbelievers  be  put? 
A  few  minutes  drive,  however,  leaves 
the  miraculous  virgin  and  her  chapel 
far  behind,  and  you  are  back  in  the  old 
town  again,  where  wheeling  is  difficult 
and  walking  is  preferable.  In  fact, 
walking  is  preferable  nearly  everywhere 
in  Spain,  for  there  are  so  many  odd 
nooks  to  be  explored,  so  many  old  shops 
to  peep  into,  that  a  cab  is  a  nuisance. 
H3 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Instinctively  one  wanders  towards 
the  river  and  over  the  old  Roman 
bridge  to  the  opposite  bank,  where  the 
best  view  of  Cordova  is  to  be  obtained. 
This  bridge  over  the  Guadalquivir  is 
said  by  the  Arab  writers  to  have  been 
originally  erected  by  Octavius  Cseser, 
but  it  was  rebuilt  by  the  Khalifs  of 
Cordova.  Its  sixteen  arches  are  crum- 
bled and  moss-grown  now,  and  instead 
of  the  tramp  of  Roman  legions  or  the 
clatter  of  Arab  horses,  there  is  the  deli- 
cate tread  of  patient  donkeys  wending 
their  way  to  the  market  stall.  The 
Calahorra  tower  of  the  Moors,  with  its 
polygonal  barbican  and  buttresses  stands 
guard,  as  it  did  when  St.  Ferdinand  be- 
sieged the  town,  and  when,  later,  the 
knights  of  Peter  the  Cruel  were  halted 
by  that  river  ^bank ;  but  all  that  is  past 
and  Cordova  is  sleeping  now,  lulled  by 
the  rush  of  the  river  as  it  flows  swiftly 
by  the  line  of  the  Arab  mills  stretching 
from  shore  to  shore.  The  white  town 
beyond  rises  sharp  against  the  blue  sky, 
144 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

with  its  prison  and  its  bishop's  palace, 
the  domes  of  its  many  churches  and  the 
mighty  cathedral  choir  towering  huge 
and  ugly  above  the  graceful  walls  of  the 
Moorish  mosque,  a  lasting  monument 
to  the  shame  of  Christian  vandals. 
The  plain  of  Cordova  stretches  flat  and 
barren  towards  the  mountains  of  Gra- 
nada, with  here  and  there  the  crumbling 
brown  walls  of  a  Moorish  watch-tower, 
and  beyond  the  town  to  the  west  are  the 
line  of  blue  hills  where  the  absentee 
nobility  have  their  gardens  and  their 
villas. 

There  is  little  more  of  the  town  that 
is  worth  seeing,  unless  it  be  the  Alcazar, 
or  Khalif's  palace.  Its  remains  are  now 
a  prison,  where  some  three  hundred 
poor  wretches  loll  in  idleness  about  the 
foul  courts,  while  the  sentry  stands 
guard  on  the  moss-grown  towers.  The 
gardens  beyond,  where  the  Moorish 
kings  wandered  with  their  harem  favor- 
ites, are  rank  with  weeds;  a  few  basins 
of  sluggish  water  remain  to  mark  the 
MS 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Moorish  baths,  but  the  Alcazar  is  little 
more  than  a  memory. 

The  one  sight  of  Cordova,  however, 
the  one  point  of  surpassing  interest,  is 
the  great  mosque  of  Abdur-Rahmin  I., 
the  Zecca  of  the  west,  with  its  mihrab, 
or  holy  of  holies,  equivalent  in  the  eyes 
of  the  ancient  Moslem  pilgrim  to  the 
caaba  of  the  prophet  at  Mecca.  This 
mosque  is  the  most  perfect  example  of 
Moorish  religious  architecture  in  exist- 
ence or  ever  erected.  It  was  built  in 
the  most  powerful  period  of  Mohamme- 
dan rule,  and  it  is  typical  of  its  builders; 
for  its  style,  unlike  the  Alhambra,  is 
simple  but  vigorous,  its  proportions 
grand.  There  is  none  of  the  effeminate 
minuteness  and  delicate,  almost  lace-like 
stucco  work,  so  redolent  of  dark-eyed 
beauties  and  soft  perfumes  found  in  the 
later  Grenadine  work.  On  the  contrary 
the  mosque  of  Cordova  is  severe,  mas- 
sive and  vast,  with  simple  curves,  and 
impressive  vistas.  One  is  bewildered 
by  the  seemingly  interminable  forest 
146 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

of  pillars  spanned  by  countless  arches. 
What  the  interior  must  have  been  when 
the  roof  was  glistening  with  vivid  colors, 
and  thousands  of  gold  and  silver  lamps, 
when  its  arches  were  studded  with  emer- 
alds and  rubies,  is  beyond  conception. 
Now  the  rude  whitewash  brush  of  the 
Christian  vandal  has  marred  the  delicate 
walls  and  a  Christian  choir,  magnificent 
to  be  sure,  but  destroying  the  simplicity 
of  the  plan,  has  been  reared  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  edifice,  where  Christian  priests 
may  chant  the  glories  of  the  conqueror. 
One  spot  only,  the  mihrab  or  sanctuary 
of  the  Moslem,  gives  one  a  partial  im- 
pression of  the  former  glories  of  this 
mosque.  The  walls  of  this  mihrab  form 
a  heptagon,  the  pavement  is  of  marble, 
and  the  shell-shaped  roof,  also  of  marble, 
is  hewn  from  a  single  block ;  the  walls 
are  decorated  with  three  lobed  arches 
resting  on  marble  pillarets,  and  the 
mosaic  ornamentation  of  the  cupola,  the 
work  of  Greek  artists  from  Constantino- 
ple, surpasses  the  finest  examples  of 

H7 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Byzantine  art  in  Italy  or  the  east.  The 
flint  glass  and  metals  of  this  work  ac- 
tually have  the  appearance  of  velvet 
and  gold  brocade.  In  the  mihrab  the 
unparalleled  pulpit  of  Al  Haken  II.  was 
kept.  It  was  of  ivory  and  precious 
wood  and  stones,  fastened  with  gold  and 
silver  nails.  It  contained  the  Koran 
made  by  Othman  and  stained  with  his 
blood.  A  box  covered  with  gold  tissue 
and  embroidered  with  pearls  enclosed 
this  precious  relic.  But  the  feet  of  Mos- 
lem pilgrims  no  longer  tread  the  pave- 
ment of  this  shrine;  Christian  incense 
burns  before  the  high  altar  and  the 
chant  of  priests  echoes  from  the  choir. 

When  St.  Ferdinand  the  Conqueror 
entered  the  captured  city  of  Cordova 
his  first  act  was  to  purify  the  mosque 
and  dedicate  it  to  the  Virgin.  Several 
chapels  and  altars  were  added,  but  it 
was  not  until  later,  in  1521,  that  the  great 
tran£ept  and  choir  were  begun.  This 
latter  work  was  designed  by  Hernan 
Ruiz  and  finished  by  his  son  Diego  de 
148 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

Praves.  It  is  in  style  morisco,  gothic 
and  plateresque.  The  high  chapel  and 
the  choir  form  a  cathedral  in  themselves, 
but  the  huge  retablo  of  bronze  and 
jasper,  and  the  sixty-three  choir-stalls, 
minutely  carved  from  mahogany,  by 
Pedro  Cornejo,  though  unexcelled,  are 
all  out  of  place.  This  work  is  merely  a 
conventional  cathedral  reared  in  the 
centre  of  the  grandest  of  Moslem  edi- 
fices by  prelates  who  felt  that  in  chris- 
tianizing the  great  mosque  they  were 
glorifying  God.  It  was  an  act  of  six- 
teenth century  bigotry,  but  even  in 
those  days  there  were  protests  against 
this  desecration.  The  municipal  corpo- 
ration, with  a  judgment  rare  in  such 
bodies,  cried  out  against  the  prelates 
whose  bigotry  led  to  such  a  profanation, 
but  the  emperor,  Charles  V.,  unac- 
quainted with  the  nature  of  the  work 
contemplated,  gave  his  acquiescence,  so 
the  centre  of  that  noble  forest  of  pillars 
was  hewn  away  to  give  place  for  Hernan 
Ruiz'  monument  of  intolerance.  Charles 
149 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

lived  to  regret  the  sacrilege  he  had 
permitted,  for,  on  passing  through  Cor- 
dova a  few  years  later,  he  reproved  the 
chapter  by  exclaiming:  "You  have 
built  here  what  you  or  anyone  might 
have  built  anywhere  else;  but  you  have 
destroyed  what  was  unique  in  the  world. " 
An  open  court  is  the  essential  feature 
of  Andalusian  architecture,  and  even  the 
mosque  is  not  without  its  patio.  Said 
Ben  Ayub  added  the  Patio  de  Los  Naran- 
jos  (Court  of  the  orange  trees)  to  the 
mosque  of  Cordova  in  937,  and  its  rows 
of  trees  originally  corresponded  with  the 
lines  of  columns  in  the  mosque.  One 
likes  to  tarry  there  under  the  shade  of 
the  Moorish  walls  and  watch  the  groups 
of  idlers  loitering  about  the  moss-grown 
fountain,  the  scene  is  so  semi-Moor- 
ish, so  characteristic  of  southern  Spain. 
Dark-haired  girls  wrapped  in  the  bright- 
colored  shawls  so  dear  to  the  Andalu- 
sian lean  upon  their  earthen  water  jars 
and  gossip;  bright-eyed  urchins  play  in 
the  listless  way  of  Spain,  and  beggars 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

loll  in  the  sun  while  the  water  trickles 
into  the  old  stone  basin  and  the  wind 
soughs  through  the  leaves  of  palms  and 
orange  trees.  It  is  a  place  to  while  the 
hours  away  and  dream  of  the  departed 
glories  of  Cordova  the  great,  the  most 
luxurious,  the  most  civilized  city  of 
mediaeval  Europe. 

An  Arab  poet  has  written  on  Cordova 
the  following  distich:  "Do  not  talk  of 
the  court  of  Baghdad  and  its  glittering 
magnificence;  do  not  praise  Persia  and 
China  and  their  manifold  advantages; 
for  there  is  no  spot  on  earth  like  Cor- 
dova, nor  in  the  whole  world  men  like 
the  Beni  Hamdin. " 

One  believes  in  the  truthfulness  of 
this  poet  when  one  reads  what  the  old 
Moorish  authorities  say  of  Cordova  in 
the  days  of  its  glory.  The  city  at  one 
time  covered  a  space  of  ground  ten 
miles  in  length,  all  lighted  at  night  by 
lamps;  the  walls  around  the  Alcazar  of 
the  Khalif  were  two  leagues  and  three 
quarters  long;  the  city  was  divided  into 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

five  large  districts  separated  from  one 
another  by  high  and  well  fortified  walls, 
while  the  suburbs  are  said  to  have  been 
twenty-one  in  number,  each  provided 
with  mosques,  markets  and  baths.  The 
traveler,  before  arriving,  had  some 
foretaste  of  the  luxury  awaiting  him, 
for  manzils,  or  rest  houses,  were  provided 
on  the  principal  highways  for  the  gra- 
tuitous entertainment  of  travelers.  The 
gates  of  Cordova  were  seven  in  number, 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  city  stood  the 
Kassabah,  or  citadel.  But  all  the  edi- 
fices were  not  of  a  warlike  nature,  for 
the  Khalif  had  his  palace  of  content- 
ment, his  palace  of  flowers,  his  palace  of 
lovers,  and  fairest  of  all,  his  palace  of 
Damascus;  while  the  humble  Moslem 
spent  his  leisure  hours  in  the  Golden 
Meadow,  the  Garden  of  the  Waterwheel, 
or  the  Meadow  of  Murmuring  Waters. 
Without  the  city  was  a  palace  built  over 
the  Guadalquivir  on  arches,  and  a  palace 
called  Dimashk,  of  which  a  poet  said: 
"All  palaces  in  the  world  are  nothing 
152 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

when  compared  to  that  of  Dimashk,  for 
not  only  has  it  gardens  filled  with  the 
most  delicious  fruits  and  sweet-smelling 
flowers,  beautiful  prospects  and  limpid 
running  waters,  clouds  fragrant  with 
aromatic  dew,  and  lofty  buildings, 

"But  its  earth  is  always  perfumed,  for 
morning  pours  on  it  her  grey  amber  and 
night  her  black  musk." 

Oriental  extravagance,  to  be  sure,  but 
extravagant  only  in  metaphor. 

More  marvelous  even  than  Cordova 
was  the  suburb  and  palace  of  Az  Zahra. 
One  third  of  the  revenues  of  the  state 
were  devoted  to  the  building  of  this  royal 
whim  by  Abdur  Rahman  the  Great,  for  a 
period  of  twenty-five  years,  and  for  fif- 
teen years  more  the  work  was  continued 
by  his  son.  But  not  a  vestige  of  this 
marvelous  creation  remains,  not  one 
stone  upon  another  to  mark  the  site  of 
a  fairy  edifice,  of  which  it  is  said  no 
words  could  paint  the  magnificence. 
The  enclosing  wall  was  four  thousand 
feet  in  length,  from  east  to  west,  and  two 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

thousand  two  hundred  from  north  to 
south.  Four  thousand  three  hundred 
columns  of  rarest  marble  from  Africa, 
Rome  and  Constantinople,  supported 
the  roof  of  this  palace;  the  halls  were 
paved  with  marble  laid  in  a  thousand 
various  patterns;  the  cedar  ceilings 
were  ornamented  with  gilding  on  azure 
ground,  with  damask  work  and  inter- 
lacing designs;  while  the  surrounding 
gardens  were  filled  with  marble  foun- 
tains and  kiosks,  where  the  sultanas 
passed  their  idle  hours. 

The  greatest  triumph  of  Cordova, 
however,  was  not  in  its  palaces  and 
mosques,  but  in  its  learning  and  lib- 
erality. When  Christian  Europe  was 
imbrued  in  barbarian  ignorance  and 
superstition,  the  arts,  philosophy  and 
literature,  medicine,  surgery  and  chem- 
istry flourished  at  the  capital  of  the 
Omeyan  Khalif ;  when  the  Christian  world 
was  steeped  in  bigotry,  Christian  wor- 
ship was  tolerated  and  even  encouraged 
by  the  Moorish  rulers.  Christian  Spain 
154 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

has  never  attained  the  preeminence  in 
learning  and  liberality  of  Moorish  Cor- 
dova. The  Khalifs  encouraged  writers 
and  men  of  science,  and  the  researches 
of  Hisham,  the  munificence  of  Abdur 
Rahman,  the  well -endowed  universities 
of  Moorish  Spain,  made  Cordova  the  re- 
sort of  students  and  philosophers:  thus 
learning  thrived  even  in  the  blackest 
moments  of  Italian  ignorance  and  papal 
oppression. 

Within  fifty  years  after  Hildebrand 
triumphed  at  Canossa,  Abn'l  Walid  Mo- 
hammed Ibn  Ahnad  Ibn  Mohammed 
Ibn  Rosht  was  born  at  Cordova.  This 
man,  known  to  the  European  world  as 
Averroes,  the  preserver  of  Aristotle, 
was  but  one  among  many  learned  doc- 
tors in  the  schools  of  Cordova.  He  en- 
joyed but  little  reputation  among  his 
compeers  save  as  a  clever  physician,  for 
he  founded  no  school  in  Islam,  and  his 
fame  is  due  to  Christian  doctors,  who 
discussed  and  misunderstood  his  com- 
mentaries, rather  than  to  his  fellow 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

countrymen.  The  works  of  Averroes  had 
the  misfortune  or  good  luck  to  incur  the 
deadly  hatred  of  the  followers  of  the 
Spanish  Dominic,  and  thus  this  Arab 
student  stands  before  the  world  as  the 
greatest  doctor  and  most  learned  phil- 
osopher of  Moorish  Spain ;  a  prophet  not 
without  honor  save  in  his  own  country, 
while  the  names  of  Abubacer,  Abenzoor 
and  the  scores  of  other  philosophers, 
scientists  and  poets  who  made  the  name 
of  Cordova  great,  have  been  forgotten. 
Even  the  fame  of  Avenpace  would  have 
perished  had  not  the  great  Averroes 
criticised  his  philosophy. 

In  those  days  of  Cordova's  glory, 
when  the  bigotry  of  the  Spaniard  was 
rife,  as  it  has  been  in  all  ages,  the 
Spanish  priests,  tolerated,  even  encour- 
aged by  the  Khalifs,  despised  the  culture 
of  Cordova,  and  alone  among  the  subject 
population  hated  the  Moors  with  bitter 
and  undying  hatred.  Unwilling  to 
accept  even  toleration,  they  publicly 
reviled  the  prophet,  and  courted  death 
'56 


Cordova  the  Magnificent 

rather  live  under  the  liberal  government 
of  the  Khalifs.  Perfectus  and  Eulogius 
and  the  other  so-called  martyrs  of  Cor- 
dova were  intolerant  fanatics,  who  cried 
aloud  in  the  great  mosque  [of  Cordova 
that  the  "Kingdom  of  Heaven  is  reser- 
ved for  the  Christians;  for  the  Moslem 
miscreants  is  prepared  the  fires  of  Hell. " 
That  spirit  is  not  dead  in  Spain.  It 
is  too  lasting,  too  time-honored  to  die, 
and  to-day  the  natural  heirs  of  Eulogius 
dwell  in  the  hills  near  Cordova,  and  turn 
their  bigoted  eyes  on  the  fair  plain  below. 
There  is  a  hermitage  in  those  hills  of 
ascetic  monks  where  the  tonsured,  bare- 
footed brothers,  some  fifteen  in  number, 
follow  the  austere  rules  of  Peter  the 
hermit.  The  view  from  their  retreat  is 
one  to  be  remembered.  Below  is  the 
flat,  treeless  plain  of  Cordova,  with  the 
silvery  river  and  the  white  city  gleaming 
in  the  sunlight,  and  beyond,  the  snow- 
capped mountains  of  the  Sierra  Nevada 
are  outlined  against  the  blue  sky.  There, 
stretched  beneath  an  olive  tree,  one 
'57 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

gazes  at  the  charming  panorama,  and 
wonders  at  the  mutability  of  all  worldly 
things.  Cordova  the  great  is  merely  a 
memory;  but  there  are  those  droning 
friars,  the  relics  of  that  intolerance  and 
bigotry  which  have  been  the  curse  of 
Spain.  The  Moorish  civilization  is  gone, 
and  the  Spanish  power  which  succeeded 
has  waned ;  but  the  voice  of  the  chant- 
ing monk  is  still  raised  as  in  the  days  of 
Eulogius.  However,  it  is  fainter  now, 
and  the  world  heeds  it  less.  Perhaps  it 
will  soon  be  hushed  forever,  and  with  its 
silence  a  new  era  will  begin  for  Spain — 
an  era  of  liberty,  prosperity  and  en- 
lightenment. 


Granada  the  Fallen 


are  vews  one  can  never 
forget,  scenes  which  have  an  im- 
perishable memory.  There  can  be,  how- 
ever, no  impression  more  lasting  than 
one's  recollection  of  the  view  from  the 
Vela  tower  of  the  Alhambra.  Below 
are  the  red  battlements  of  the  Moorish 
fortress,  and  across  the  rushing  Darro 
the  grey-white  town  is  piled  high  on 
the  hill  tops.  Beyond  the  jumble  of  tile 
roofs  and  hanging  balconies,  the  green 
Vega  of  Granada,  dotted  with  olives 
and  poplars  and  the  glinting  walls  of 
villages,  stretches  like  a  carpet  of  plush 
towards  the  purple  mountains  of  Malaga. 
To  the  north  the  rugged  Sierra  Nevada 
raise  their  snow-capped  peaks  above  the 
clouds,  and  high  on  the  hillside  beyond 
the  towers  of  the  Alhambra,  the  white 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

arcades  of  the  Generalife  glisten  in  the 
sunlight.  Myrtles  and  oranges  grow 
amid  the  crumbling  ruins  at  one's  feet; 
across  the  river  a  Carthusian  monastery, 
perched  like  a  sentinel  of  Christ  upon  a 
hilltop,  proudly  overlooks  the  troublous 
Albeicin  quarter  and  recalls  stern  Ximi- 
nes  and  his  unrelenting  treatment  of  the 
conquered  Moor.  But  wherever  one 
turns  there  are  memories.  There  is  a 
gate  where  the  hapless  Boabdil's  lance 
was  shattered  as  he  went  forth  to  disas- 
ter, and  across  the  Vega  the  grey  towers 
of  the  Santa  Fe,  reared  by  the  invading 
host  of  the  Catholic  kings,  rise  dimly 
from  the  plain.  In  fancy  one  sees  the 
smoke  of  the  conqueror's  torch  or  the 
dust  of  Moorish  cavalry. 

But  those  days  are  over;  Granada  the 
beautiful  sleeps.  There  in  the  town 
below  mice-like  donkeys  tread  their 
patient  way  beside  the  rumbling]  Darro, 
while  ghost-like  Spaniards  in  flowing 
cloaks  silently  come  and  go.  Bells  toll, 
the  mournful  cries  of  street  venders 
160 


Granada  the  Fallen 

mingle  with  the  ripple  of  waters,  the  air 
has  the  soft  stillness  of  summer,  and  the 
lazy  beggars  dozing  in  the  sun  make  one 
know  that  the  Granada  of  long  ago  is 
only  a  glorious  dream. 

To  speak  of  Granada  is  to  speak  of  the 
Alhambra,  but  one  falters  at  describing 
the  vastness  and  the  delicacy  of  that  last 
effort  of  the  Spanish  Moor;  one  falters 
at  treading  in  Irving's  footsteps  even  in 
the  humblest  way,  for  he  made  the  place 
and  all  its  memories  so  thoroughly  his 
own.  The  hotel  beneath  the  walls  bears 
his  name;  his  "Tales"  are  sold  by  im- 
portunate venders;  the  guide  shows  the 
rooms  in  which  he  slept  with  an  air  of 
mysterious  reverence,  and  wherever  one 
turns  one  feels  the  presence  of  the 
American  writer  who,  more  than  any 
man,  has  preserved  the  memory  of  the 
Moor.  But  all  the  world  does  not  read 
Irving  to-day;  his  style  lacks  the  crisp- 
ness  and  smartness  of  the  up-to-date 
novelist,  and  there  may  be  some  to  whom 
the  "Conquest  of  Granada"  and  "Tales 
161 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

of  the  Alhambra"  are  merely  the  names 
of  unread  books.  That  is  one's  only 
excuse  for  writing  of  Granada. 

The  Alhambra  has  been  called  a  pal- 
ace-fortress, and  such  it  certainly  was  in 
the  days  of  its  prime.  It  was  almost  a 
city  as  well,  and  so  numerous  were  the 
buildings  clustered  upon  the  long  pro- 
montory, or  ridge,  raising  between  the 
rivers  Darro  and  Genii,  that  the  place 
was  called  by  the  Arabs,  Medinah  Al- 
hamra,  or  Alhambra  City.  The  name 
has  been  usually  considered  to  mean 
"red  castle,"  from  the  reddish  color  of 
the  ferruginous  tapia  work  of  the  walls. 
It  is,  however,  more  probably  derived 
from  Kasru-1-hamra,  meaning  the  sul- 
tan's palace  (Kasr  being  a  corruption 
of  Caesar),  but  whatever  be  the  origin 
of  the  name,  the  Alhambra  of  to-day  is 
of  far  more  recent  workmanship  than 
most  of  the  Moorish  ruins  of  Spain.  Al- 
though the  promontory  where  the  palace 
stands  was  long  fortified  as  a  stronghold, 
the  Alhambra  is  practically  the  creation 
162 


Granada  the  Fallen 

of  Ibn  1  Ahmar,  the  founder  of  the  Mas- 
rite  dynasty,  and  dates  from  about  1248 
A.D. 

The  kingdom  of  Granada  was  the  last 
stronghold  of  the  Moors  in  the  Peninsula; 
Cordova  was  the  capital  of  Moorish 
Spain  in  its  prime,  and  on  the  breaking 
up  of  the  Omeyan  Khalifate  after  the 
death  of  Almanzor  in  1002,  into  numer- 
ous petty  kingdoms,  Seville  rose  to  the 
greatest  prominence.  The  feuds  be- 
tween these  petty  kingdoms  were  nearly 
successful  in  destroying  the  Arab  power 
entirely.  And  had  not  the  Almoravides 
and  the  Almohades,  two  fanatical  sects 
from  Africa,  invaded  Spain  successively 
in  the  interests  of  the  Crescent,  the  end 
of  Moslem  rule  might  have  been  ante- 
dated some  four  centuries.  But  the 
semi-barbarous  tribes  from  Africa  infused 
new  vigor  into  the  declining  Moor  and 
prolonged  the  Mohammedan  power.  It 
was  not  until  the  great  Christian  victory 
of  Navas  de  Tolosa,  in  1212,  that  the 
power  of  the  Almohades  was  crushed. 
163 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

The  fall  of  Cordova  and  Seville  was  but 
a  question  of  a  few  years.  Granada, 
one  of  the  petty  Arab  kingdoms,  became 
the  last  refuge  of  the  Moor.  The  Mos- 
lem, driven  from  Cordova,  Seville  and 
the  other  cities  of  Spain,  sought  shelter 
in  this  little  mountain  kingdom,  and 
there  for  two  centuries  the  decadent 
Moors,  by  wisely  acknowleding  the  suze- 
rainty of  the  kings  of  Castile,  were  en- 
abled to  govern  themselves  and  prolong 
their  final  downfall. 

The  Grenadine,  like  all  decadents,  was 
luxurious,  effeminate  and  contentious. 
His  history  is  a  history  of  palace  in- 
trigues, rebellions  and  civil  wars;  when 
he  was  not  fighting  the  Christian  he  was 
plotting,  and  his  idle  moments  were 
spent  with  the  women  of  his  harem,  sur- 
rounded by  all  the  luxury  his  ingenuity 
could  devise.  His  art  was  delicate  and 
refined,  but  it  lacked  the  vigor  shown  in 
the  works  of  the  Cordovans.  Its  very 
effeminacy,  however,  gives  it  a  charm 
which  has  made  the  Alhambra  rank  first 
164 


Granada  the  Fallen 

in  interest  among  the  Moorish  ruins. 
One  pities  a  fallen  race,  one  has  sympathy 
for  a  people  who,  like  the  Grenadines, 
were  the  remnant  of  a  mighty  power. 
That  is,  perhaps,  why  the  two  centuries 
of  Granada's  history  have  almost  over- 
shadowed the  five  centuries  of  Moorish 
grandeur  at  Cordova.  The  last  struggle 
of  the  Moors  against  the  power  of  the 
Catholic  kings  has  been  the  topic  of 
many  a  romance  and  poem,  and  Boabdil 
the  miserable  rebel,  the  tool  of  women, 
the  traitor,  has  become  a  hero  at  the  ex- 
pense of  his  brave  father  and  still  braver 
uncle,  merely  because  it  was  he  who  sur- 
rendered the  keys  of  Granada  to  Ferdi- 
nand and  Isabella,  and  because  as  he 
looked  for  the  last  time  upon  the  towers 
of  the  Alhambra,  he  stood  "crying  like 
a  woman  for  the  kingdom  he  could  not 
defend  like  a  man."  What  a  pitiful  suc- 
cessor to  the  great  Abdur  Rahman  Al- 
manzor,  or  even  Al  Ahmar,  the  founder 
of  Boabdil's  house!  Yet  the  average 
reader,  if  he  knows  of  the  Moors  at  all, 
165 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

knows  of  Boabdil.  The  great  names  of 
Moorish  history  have  been  forgotten  that 
the  name  of  the  rebel  and  traitor  may 
live.  Likewise  the  Alhambra  has  at- 
tained a  preeminence  perhaps  unde- 
served in  point  of  grandeur,  but  certainly 
not  in  point  of  beauty;  for  this  fairy  pal- 
ace of  the  declining  Moor  stands  unique 
among  the  world's  monuments. 

The  earlier  phase  of  Moorish  art,  ex- 
emplified by  the  mosque  of  Cordova, 
was  the  outcome  of  a  stern,  almost 
ascetic  spirit,  which  avoided  frivolous 
ornamentation,  and  reflected  the  vigor- 
ous character  of  the  times.  The  Alham- 
bra belongs  to  the  last  period  of  Moorish 
architecture,  a  degenerate  period  want- 
ing in  lofty  inspiration,  and  expressing 
the  effeminacy  and  luxury  of  the  age. 
It  is  almost  excessive  in  ornamentation, 
the  proportions  are  even  paltry,  and 
there  is  exaggeration  in  the  outline;  but 
no  other  Moorish  monument  possesses 
the  delicate  refinement,  the  almost  inex- 


166 


Granada  the  Fallen 

pressible  charm  of  this  palace  of  the 
Grenadine  kings. 

How  many  times  has  the  Alhambra 
been  described  minutely?  As  often  as  a 
traveler  with  a  pencil  and  a  note  book 
has  wandered  within  its  walls.  It  has 
been  called  a  fortress,  a  castle,  a  palace, 
a  city,  a  ruin,  a  monument,  and  one 
knows  not  what  else;  each  stone,  each 
azulejo,  has  received  its  share  of  atten- 
tion, and  the  end  is  not  yet.  One  pre- 
fers to  saunter  quietly  through  the  shady 
courts,  tarrying  for  a  moment  here  and 
there,  and  leaving  minute  description  to 
the  architect  or  the  antiquary. 

In  the  Plaza  de  los  Algibes  (Place  of 
the  Cisterns)  for  instance,  you  may  rest 
for  a  while  in  the  shade  of  a  crumbling 
wall  and  study  the  history  of  Spain  ob- 
jectively. Surrounding  you  are  the 
irregular  walls  and  square  castellated 
towers  of  the  fortress,  the  entrance  to 
the  Moorish  palace,  the  church  of  San 
Nicolas,  the  unfinished  Tuscan  palace 


167 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

of  Charles  V.,  and  the  houses  of  the 
Alhambra  leeches,  who  thrive  on  travel- 
ers. One  sees  at  a  glance  the  vestiges 
of  Roman  rule  and  Arab  dominion,  side 
by  side  with  the  monumental  evidence  of 
Spanish  fanaticism  and  Austrian  conceit; 
while  lolling  in  the  sun  are  the  slothful 
Spaniards  of  to-day,  typical  of  a  great- 
ness which  has  waned. 

But  it  is  impossible  to  tarry  unmo- 
lested in  the  Plaza  de  los  Algibes.  Just 
when  one's  fancy  is  turning  to  the  ro- 
mantic period  of  Moorish  rule  and  pic- 
turing that  palace  yard  filled  with 
bearded  Moors,  resplendent  with  colored 
silks  and  jeweled  cimeters,  white  turbans 
and  glistening  lances,  the  self-styled 
"Prince  of  The  Gypsies"  thrusts  his 
smirking  countenance  before  one's  face 
and  begs  for  a  copper  to  keep  his  royal 
highness  in  aguardiente.  This  pictur- 
esque ruffian  was  once  a  model  for  For- 
tuny,  and  he  now  attires  himself  in 
fantastic  garb  and  preys  upon  the  un- 
wary tourist.  He  is  but  one  of  a  host 
168 


Granada  the  Fallen 

of  miscreants  haunting  the  Alhambra, 
and  dogging  one's  footsteps.  To  escape 
one  must  enter  the  palace  itself,  where 
the  employes  are  civil  and  one  is  left 
unmolested  to  enjoy  the  delights  of 
Moorish  art. 

Of  all  the  courts  of  the  Alhambra  that 
of  the  Lions  is  most  universally  known. 
It  is  a  perfect  model  of  the  Moorish 
patio,  and  the  light,  graceful  columns, 
the  open  filagree  work,  the  colored  tiles, 
the  stalactite  arches,  are  so  admirably 
blended  that  criticism  seems  futile.  The 
fountain,  too,  with  its  huge  alabaster 
basin,  supported  by  twelve  heraldic 
lions,  is  a  familiar  friend  one  has  known 
in  story  and  picture  from  childhood. 
There  is  a  view  across  this  court  which  for 
its  delicacy  and  charm  is  unrivalled. 
You  must  make  friends  with  the  em- 
pleado  who  paces  to  and  fro  on  the  mar- 
ble pavement,  eyeing  the  visitors  who 
come  and  go.  It  is  his  duty  to  protect 
the  court  from  defacement,  and  the  relic- 
hunting  tourist  is  his  enemy;  but  with  a 
169 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

word  or  two  of  greeting,  and  the  offer  of 
a  cigarillo,  he  becomes  your  friend,  and 
with  rare  attention  he  fishes  out  an  old 
chair  from  behind  some  column  and 
places  it  for  you  in  the  cool  shady  en- 
trance to  the  Hall  of  the  Abencerrages. 
Not  only  does  he  thus  provide  for  your 
comfort,  but  he  discreetly  retires  to  a 
neighboring  hall  and  leaves  you  to  un- 
molested enjoyment  of  the  place. 

One  looks  across  the  court,  where  grif- 
fin-like lions  gaze  heavenward,  to  the 
Hall  of  the  Two  Sisters.  Broad  marble 
steps  descend  gently,  lace-like  arches 
are  grouped  in  bewildering  perspective, 
some  white,  some  delicate  flesh  color, 
with  here  and  there  pale  tints  of  pink 
and  blue.  Behind  the  fountain  a  net- 
work of  stalactite  archways,  deep  in 
shadow,  converge  to  the  double  mirador 
of  the  "  Favorite,"  where  alabaster 
columns  glisten  in  the  sunlight,  and 
orange  and  cypress  trees  spread  their 
brilliant  green  branches  in  the  Lindaraja 
garden  beyond. 

170 


Granada  the  Fallen 

In  the  hall  where  one  is  sitting,  the 
dark  ferruginous  blotches  on  the  pave- 
ment are  said  to  be  the  blood  stains  of 
the  Abencerrages,  a  powerful  family  of 
Granada,  murdered  by  the  miserable 
Boabdil  as  the  tyrant's  reward  for  their 
assistance  in  placing  him  upon  his 
father's  throne.  It  is  one  of  the  legends 
of  the  Alhambra,  more  reliable  than 
the  stains  upon  the  floor.  But  one 
dislikes  to  examine  the  fables  of  the 
Moor  under  the  cold  light  of  history. 
One  prefers  rather  the  romantic  tales 
of  Irving;  tales  of  fair  sultanas  and  their 
Christian  captive  lovers,  of  cruel  khalifs 
and  plotting  viziers.  One  listens  in 
fancy  to  the  rattle  of  the  cimeter  and  the 
tramp  of  bearded  warriors,  and  pictures 
in  imagination  the  dark  eyes  of  harem 
favorites  glancing  from  the  miradores 
above  upon  lithe  dancing  girls  moving  to 
the  sonorous  lute  and  the  clash  of  cym- 
bals in  the  court  below;  while  luxurious 
Moors,  reclining  on  silken  divans,  sip 
fragrant  sherbet  from  golden  cups,  and 
171 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Nubian  slaves  slowly  fan  the  summer 
air. 

The  Alhambra  is  bewilderment.  Every- 
where one  turns  there  is  grace  in  out- 
line and  charm  in  color.  One  wanders 
through  halls  and  galleries  with  maze-like 
arches  and  myriad  columns,  where  Ara- 
bic legends  are  intricately  interwoven 
in  countless  designs.  There  are  shady 
courts  where  goldfish  play  in  marble 
basins,  and  the  shadows  of  myrtle 
hedges  are  cast  upon  the  green  water; 
there  are  delicate  balconies  set  in  the 
outer  walls,  where  one  gazes  from  dizzy 
heights  upon  the  rushing  Darro  and  the 
white  town  sprinkled  on  the  hillside; 
there  are  crumbling  towers  with  fairy 
chambers,  where  sultanas  dwelt,  and 
mosques  and  baths,  and  halls  of  justice. 
One  confesses  an  inability  even  to  enu- 
merate the  delights  of  the  Alhambra,  for 
there  is  fascination  everywhere. 

Those  Grenadine  kings,  however, 
were  not  content  with  their  palace  fort- 
ress. In  the  hot  summer  months  they 
172 


Granada  the  Fallen 

retired  to  the  hillside  above,  where  the 
white  villa  of  the  Generalife  looks  down 
upon  the  Alhambra.  The  name  General- 
ife is  said  to  signify  "Garden  of  the 
Dance."  The  Grenadine  kings  took 
care  that  the  place  should  not  belie  its 
name.  It  was  used  for  festival  occasions 
and  to  pass  the  idle  moments;  a  villa  of 
revelry  and  pleasure,  where  the  sensuous 
Moor  might  indulge  in  his  favorite  pleas- 
ures. Neglect  and  the  whitewash  brush 
have  marred  the  delicate  stucco  work, 
but  the  many  fountains  and  the  gardens 
with  their  orange  and  lemon  trees, 
their  evergreen  arches  and  yews  twisted 
into  fantastic  patterns,  give  partial  evi- 
dence of  the  charms  of  the  Generaiife  in 
the  days  of  its  prime.  One  understands 
the  flowery  praise  of  Arab  poets.  It  is  a 
pleasure  to  tarry  in  those  gardens.  The 
fountains  murmur,  and  the  leaves  or 
oranges  are  vivid  in  the  sunlight.  The 
tall  forms  of  cypresses  cast  cool  shadows 
on  the  pavement,  and  the  odor  of  roses 
scents  the  air.  One's  thoughts  turn  to 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

long  ago,  and  in  fancy  the  hosts  of  the 
Catholic  kings  are  marshalled  in  the 
plain  below;  pennons  flutter,  the  armor 
of  Christian  knights  glistens  as  their 
restless  chargers  paw  the  ground.  Fer- 
dinand and  Isabella  are  there,  and  Gon- 
zalo  de  Cordova,  "the  great  captain," 
whose  fame  is  soon  to  resound  through 
Europe;  stern  Mendoza,  too,  and  all  the 
Christian  soldiers  and  prelates,  who  for 
ten  long  years  have  been  waging  relent- 
less war  upon  the  Moor.  It  is  the  hour 
of  triumph  for  the  cross,  for  hapless 
Boabdil  comes  forth  from  the  city  gates 
to  surrender  the  keys  of  Granada  to  the 
conqueror.  The  story  of  the  Moor  is 
ended,  and  the  banner  of  Castile,  hoisted 
by  the  hand  of  Cardinal  Mendoza,  flut- 
ters from  the  Vela  tower.  Spain  becomes 
a  Christian  nation. 

It  was  a  marvelous  period  in  her  his- 
tory, for  Columbus  went  forth  that  year 
from  Palos.  He  was  present  in  the  be- 
sieging camp  of  Santa  ¥6  pleading  his 
cause.  Weary  and  disgusted  by  tempo- 


Granada  the  Fallen 

rizing,  he  turned  his  face  toward  France, 
and  was  on  his  way  across  the  Vega, 
when  a  messenger  from  the  queen  over- 
took him,  and  he  came  back  to  add 
another  world  to  Castile-Leon. 

Spain  was  given  a  glorious  chance, 
but  the  Spanish  Christian,  like  the  Moor, 
was  unequal  to  the  task.  Four  hundred 
years  have  passed,  and  the  world  looks 
on  to-day  at  Spain's  desperate  struggle 
to  retain  the  last  possessions  of  her 
mighty  empire.  "There  is  no  conqueror 
but  God. "  That  is  the  sentiment  chis- 
elled in  a  hundred  places  on  the  walls  of 
the  Alhambra.  It  was  the  sentiment  of 
the  fatalistic  Moor,  but  the  lazy  Span- 
iard who  lolls  there  in  the  sun  to-day,  if 
he  thinks  at  all,  should  realize  its  truth, 
as  exemplified  over  and  over  again  in 
the  history  of  his  country. 

The  Granada  of  to-day  is  a  sluggish 
Spanish  city,  with  narrow  winding 
streets  where  idlers  congregate.  The 
houses  are  taller  than  those  of  Seville, 
with  more  balconies,  but  the  walls  are 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

not  so  white,  and  there  are  few  of  those 
delightful  courts  with  fountains  and  flow- 
ers which  lend  a  holiday  air  to  the  rival 
city.  Granada  is  more  like  a  Castilian 
than  an  Andalusian  city,  and  there  is 
little  to  attract  the  visitor  who  wanders 
down  the  steep  Alhambra  hill  into  the 
town  below.  Curiosity  shops  are  there 
to  entrap  the  unwary  traveler,  and  in 
some  of  the  narrower  streets  there  are 
attractive  dashes  of  local  color  in  the 
shape  of  dingy  booths,  and  donkeys,  and 
tattered  beggars.  There  are  pretty  girls, 
too,  leaning  on  the  balconies,  their  spir- 
ited eyes  flashing  defiance  at  cloaked 
gallants  lounging  in  the  sun;  but  the 
town  has  a  forlorn  air  of  "decayed  gen- 
tility." 

The  women,  however,  almost  redeem 
the  city,  for  nowhere  in  Spain  are  there 
such  marvelous  complexions  as  one  sees 
in  Granada.  There  is  a  delicate  soft- 
ness to  the  skin,  and  a  rich  flush  of 
color,  which  combined  with  the  glossy 
hair  and  piercing  black  eyes,  form  the 
176 


Granada  the  Fallen 

perfect  Spanish  type  of  beauty.  The 
beauty  is  facial,  however,  as  few  Spanish 
women  have  good  figures,  and  they  wad- 
dle rather  than  walk.  In  the  simple 
black  dresses  and  lace  mantillas  which 
they  wear  going  to  mass,  they  are  the 
Spanish  women  of  one's  imagination; 
but  in  French  bonnets  and  gowns  they 
are  fat  and  awkward.  In  Granada,  how- 
ever, one  sees  them  even  to  better  ad- 
vantage than  in  Seville. 

Some  ten  or  fifteen  years  ago,  at  the 
time  of  a  former  visit,  national  costumes 
were  almost  universal  in  Andalusia — the 
manola  dress,  with  short  skirt  and  silken 
shawl  wrapped  about  the  shoulders,  the 
high  comb  and  lace  mantilla;  but  now 
even  the  dancing  girls  wear  clothes  of 
modern  pattern.  The  men,  too,  used 
to  wear  the  bolero  jacket  and  skin-tight 
breeches,  the  palainas  or  leggins,  the 
faja  or  broad  sash,  and  the  calanes  ,  or 
round  hat,  with  two  balls  or  ponpons, 
one  sees  so  often  in  Carmen;  but  now 
that  costume  is  only  found  in  the  coun- 
177 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

try  far  from  the  larger  cities;  and  of 
national  garments  only  the  capa  or 
cloak  remains ;  that,  too,  is  disappearing. 
The  Spaniard,  like  the  Japanese,  when 
modernized  loses  his  character.  What 
a  pity  he  does  not  realize  it. 

Granada,  like  all  the  cities  of  Spain, 
has  its  cathedral,  a  Graeco-Roman  pile, 
built  in  1529,  on  the  site  of  the  great 
mosque.  It  was  intended  by  the  archi- 
tect to  be  second  to  no  church  in  the 
world,  except  perhaps  St.  Peter's,  but 
it  is  second  to  many  in  Spain.  The  pro- 
portions are  good,  but  the  building  is 
crowded  among  the  surrounding  houses 
so  that  it  is  not  seen  to  advantage,  and 
the  interior,  though  simple,  one  might  al- 
most say  grand,  has  been  too  thoroughly 
renovated  to  possess  the  sombre  charm 
of  such  edifices  as  the  cathedrals  of  Se- 
ville, Toledo  and  Burgos.  There  is 
much  that  is  gaudy,  too,  in  the  coloring, 
and  the  general  effect  is  disappointing. 

One's  interest  in  the  cathedral  centres 
in  the  royal  chapel  where  Ferdinand  and 
178 


Granada  the  Fallen 

Isabella  are  buried.  This  chapel  is 
really  independent  of  the  cathedral,  as  it 
has  its  own  chapter  and  chaplains.  The 
interior  has  the  impressive  gloom  absent 
in  the  larger  church;  there  are  slender 
palm-like  pillars  of  unusual  charm,  and 
the  bassi  relievi  of  the  retablo,  represen- 
ting the  surrender  of  Granada  and  the 
conversion  of  infidels,  recalls  the  stir- 
ring times  when  the  Moor  was  con- 
quered. Effigies  of  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella kneel  beside  the  altar,  and  in 
the  centre  of  the  chapel  are  the  alabas- 
ter sepulchres  of  the  Catholic  kings, 
with  those  of  Phillip  I.  and  crazy  Jane 
at  either  side.  On  the  walls  are  sculp- 
tured the  words:  "This  chapel  was 
founded  by  the  most  Catholic  Don  Fer- 
nando and  Dona  Isabel,  King  and  Queen 
of  Spain,  of  Naples,  of  Sicily  and  Jerusa- 
lem, who  conquered  this  kingdom  and 
brought  it  back  to  our  faith;  who  ac- 
quired the  Canary  Isles  and  Indies,  as 
well  as  the  cities  of  Oran,  Tripoli  and 
Bugia,  who  crushed  heresy,  expelled  the 
179 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Moors  and  Jews  from  these  realms  and 
reformed  religion." 

One  stops  to  ponder  on  the  lifework 
of  those  Catholic  kings,  a  work  that 
should  have  made  of  Spain  a  nation  such 
as  England  is  to-day,  and  as  one  pond- 
ers, the  words  "who  crushed  heresy,  ex- 
pelled the  Moors  and  Jews  from  these 
realms  and  reformed  religion,"  stand 
out  preeminent.  There  is  the  secret  of 
the  failure  of  Spain. 

Wherever  one  turns  in  Granada  there 
are  historical  lessons.  In  the  church  of 
San  Geronimo,  one  of  the  many  interest- 
ing sacred  edifices  which  are  scattered 
through  the  city,  Gonzalo  de  Cordova 
lies  buried.  He  was  the  greatest  soldier 
Spain  ever  produced,  a  man  who  more 
than  any  other  created  the  European 
Empire  of  the  Spaniard,  who  revolution- 
ized the  art  of  war,  who  over  and  over 
again  defeated  the  best  troops  of  France 
with  greatly  inferior  numbers,  and  main- 
tained the  Spanish  power  in  Italy  with- 
out money  and  without  men,  only  to  be 
180 


Granada  the  Fallen 

rewarded  by  the  base  ingratitude  of  his 
master,  the  miserly  and  crafty  Ferdi- 
nand. The  two  men  who  created  the 
magnificent  empire  of  the  Catholic  Kings 
were  Columbus  and  Gonzalo  de  Cordova, 
"The  Great  Captain."  Each  died  of  a 
broken  heart.  Ingratitude  is  the  reward 
of  kings. 

One  of  the  sights  of  Granada  which 
the  tourist  invariably  sees  is  the  gypsy 
quarter.  It  is  the  stock  in  trade  of 
the  guides,  and  the  dances  organized 
there  at  exorbitant  rates,  are  usually 
successful  in  entrapping  the  unwary  trav- 
eler. Among  the  filthy,  miserable,  un- 
principled vagabonds  of  Christendom, 
the  Grenadine  gypsies  hold  preeminence. 
They  live  in  a  series  of  caves,  dug  in 
the  hillside  across  the  Darro,  and  their 
sole  means  of  livelihood  is  fleecing  the 
strangers.  The  moment  a  traveler  ap- 
pears within  sight  of  the  gypsy  quarter 
he  is  surrounded  by  a  clamorous,  yelling 
mob  of  filthy  urchins,  who  dog  his  foot- 
steps with  appalling  persistency.  The 
281 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

dance  he  is  to  witness  takes  place  in  a 
dingy,  foul  smelling  hut,  with  dirt  floor 
and  smoky  walls.  You  are  seated  in 
state  in  a  rickety  chair,  and  told  that  the 
price  agreed  upon  is  not  sufficient  to 
insure  the  full  performance.  The  guitar- 
ist needs  a  larger  share,  four  girls  cannot 
do  all  the  dances,  for  a  few  dollars  more 
you  can  see  the  entire  show.  After  a 
great  deal  of  squabbling  and  gesticulat- 
ing the  bargain  is  finally  comsummated. 
Then  the  imposition  begins.  The  danc- 
ing girls  are  fat,  ugly  creatures  in  gaudy 
cotton  gowns,  whose  vulgarity  excels 
anything  seen  in  the  Midway  during  the 
World's  Fair,  and  as  the  performance 
progresses  their  movements  become  more 
and  more  objectionable.  The  leader 
who  plays  the  guitar  is  a  clever  per- 
former and  executes  some  really  excellent 
music  between  the  dances,  but  the  foul 
place,  the  vulgar  dancers,  the  gaping 
crowd  of  beggars  in  the  doorway,  all  make 
one  thankful  to  flee  from  the  gypsy 
quarter  and  its  disgusting  inhabitants. 
182 


Granada  the  Fallen 

Escaping  from  the  gypsies  you  walk 
back  through  the  old  Moorish  section  of 
the  city  known  as  the  Albeicin  quarter. 
The  Arab  houses  are  still  there,  and  you 
can  roam  leisurely  through  the  narrow 
streets  peeping  into  the  little  shops  and 
the  quaint  old  courts,  with  their  Moorish 
arches  and  their  fountains,  their  white- 
washed walls  and  cool  balconies,  where 
vines  are  growing  and  dark-skinned  girls 
are  leaning  on  the  railings. 

There  are  many  excursions  to  be  made 
about  Granada,  drives  across  the  Vega 
to  Santa  Fe,  drives  along  the  gorge  of 
the  Darro  to  the  Colegiata  del  Sacro 
Monte,  with  its  subterranean  chapels 
erected  to  commemorate  numberless 
miracles  and  treasure  trove.  If  you 
have  the  time  there  are  excursions  to 
the  Alpuxarra  mountains,  so  historic- 
ally interesting  as  being  the  last  home 
of  the  Moors,  and  the  scene  of  that 
frightful  series  of  wars  succeeding  the 
fall  of  Granada,  where  Don  John  of 
Austria  won  his  spurs,  and  the  remnants 
183 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

of  the  Moors,  known  as  the  Moriscos, 
defied  the  power  of  Spain.  The  great 
rebellion  of  the  Alpuxarras  lasted  for  two 
years,  and  its  records  of  assassination, 
treachery,  brutality  and  reckless  deeds 
of  daring  are  among  the  most  horrible 
and  fascinating  of  history.  But  wher- 
ever one  turns  there  is  historical  associa- 
tion, interesting  and  sorrowful. 

Some  six  miles  from  Granada  there  is 
a  hamlet  called  Zubia,  deserving  a  spe- 
cial commendation  as  being  the  only 
place  in  Spain  where  one  did  not  meet  a 
beggar.  But  Zubia  has  another  interest. 
During  the  siege  of  Granada,  Isabella 
rode  there  from  the  camp  at  Santa  Fd 
to  obtain  a  view  of  the  Alhambra  and 
the  promised  land  of  the  Moor.  A  sally 
was  made  from  the  city  and  the  queen 
escaped  capture  —  miraculously,  of 
course. 

A  shrine  to  the  virgin  who  appeared 

visibly   for   the  queen's  protection  was 

erected  by  Isabella  to  commemorate  the 

escape,  and  its  ruins  still  remain  among 

184 


Granada  the  Fallen 

the  laurels  and  the  cypress  trees.  One 
tarries  there  for  a  last  view  of  white 
Granada  scattered  over  its  four  hills, 
and  the  red  Alhambra  outlined  against 
the  purple  mountains  beyond.  The 
snow  caps  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  sparkle 
in  the  sunlight,  the  green  Vega  stretches 
towards  Malaga  and  the  sea,  fleecy 
clouds  hang  motionless  in  the  hazy  sky. 
The  air  is  balmy,  and  loitering  there  one 
breathes  a  last  sigh  for  the  Moor,  who 
made  of  Spain  the  centre  of  arts  and 
sciences,  the  seat  of  learning  and  refine- 
ment. Spain,  during  the  brief  brilliancy 
of  the  Catholic  kings  and  the  Hapsburg 
Empire  was  a  mighty  nation,  but  it 
shone  with  the  borrowed  light  of  the 
Moor.  The  Moor  was  banished,  but  his 
best  memorial  lies  in  the  desolate  tracts 
of  land  where  his  vines  and  olives  once 
grew;  in  the  sleepy,  ignorant  cities 
where  his  art  and  learning  once  flour- 
ished. 


185 


Provincial    Towns 

IN  a  provincial  town  away  from  the 
beaten  tracks  of  travel,  one  sees 
Spanish  life  as  it  has  existed  untainted 
for  centuries.  A  hundred  years  at  least 
behind  the  world,  the  town  sleeps  on, 
undisturbed  by  modern  unrest.  Even 
the  railway  with  its  one  crawling  train 
per  day,  skirts  along  the  suburbs  a  mile 
or  more  away  as  though  fearful  to  dis- 
turb the  quiet  by  its  pretence  of  activity. 
About  the  little  stuccoed  station  a 
group  of  vagos  loiter  in  the  sun,  their 
bronzed  faces  animated  by  idle  curiosity, 
their  gay  mantas  slung  carelessly  across 
their  tattered  coats.  There  is  a  buffet, 
too,  with  its  huge  bottles  of  red  and 
yellow  wine,  its  piles  of  oranges  and 
sour  bread.  Perchance  the  train  bears 
a  contingent  of  recruits  for  Cuba,  and 
186 


Provincial  Towns 

the  poor  fellows  hurriedly  crowd  around 
the  wine  puesto,  and  exhaust  the 
meagre  stock  of  liquids.  They  are 
apparently  happy,  singing  and  laughing 
to  keep  their  courage  up,  but  the  tearful 
faces  of  the  peasant  women,  and  the 
stoical  old  men  who  are  there  to  take  a 
last  farewell  of  the  poor  boys,  betray  the 
suffering  that  war  is  causing.  The  inevit- 
able pair  of  civil  guards,  with  neat  black 
uniforms  and  glistening  equipments,  are 
there  to  scrutinize  the  crowd  with  the 
authoritative  air  of  the  trained  policeman. 
Spanish  trains  do  not  worry  much 
about  time.  When  the  engine  driver  has 
finished  his  cigarette  and  the  station 
master  has  sufficiently  discussed  political 
gossip  with  the  guard,  someone  rings  a 
bell,  a  whistle  is  blown,  a  bell  is  rung 
again,  and  finally  after  much  gesticula- 
tion and  waving  of  hands,  with  perhaps  a 
faint  attempt  at  a  cheer  on  the  part  of 
the  recruits,  the  train  draws  slowly  away 
and  you  are  left  standing  on  the  platform 
admiring  the  temerity  of  the  men  who 
187 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

invaded  such  a    land   with   locomotives 
and  iron  rails. 

Outside  the  station  two  or  three  crude 
omnibuses  are  waiting.  There  is  a  dusty 
line  of  road  with  a  double  row  of  trees, 
and  beyond  is  the  brown  mass  of  the 
town  with  the  inevitable  cathedral  spires 
towering  against  the  sky.  Seating  your- 
self in  one  of  the  omnibuses  amid  a 
crowd  of  Spanish  provincials,  you  are 
hurried  away  over  the  hard  road  towards 
the  sleepy  town.  Bells  jangle,  hoofs 
click,  the  bus  sways  like  a  ship  at  sea, 
but  the  stoical  Spaniards  about  you 
smoke  on  unmoved.  The  air  is  crisp  and 
chill,  and  their  faces  are  half  hidden  in 
their  muffled  cloaks;  they  utter  a  few 
guttural  sounds  about  the  weather,  and 
perhaps  give  their  cloaks  an  extra  twist. 
Finally  the  walled  town  is  reached,  and 
the  omnibus  is  halted  by  the  octroi 
officials,  who  proceed  to  examine  the 
remotest  corners  of  the  vehicle  in  their 
search  for  dutiable  merchandise.  The 
driver  of  the  mixed  team  of  mules  and 
188 


Provincial  Towns 

horses  is  a  wag,  and  makes  sarcastic 
remarks  about  bread  contained  in  his  hat 
and  aguardiente  in  his  stomach  which 
he  supposes  is  dutiable,  but  unmindful 
of  his  wit  the  customs  officers  proceed 
in  their  search  until  they  are  satisfied. 
Then  the  bus  rattles  on  over  the  cobbles 
of  the  narrow  street,  scattering  goats 
and  chickens  to  right  and  left,  crowd- 
ing donkeys  and  wayfarers  against  the 
walls. 

The  driver  is  an  artist  in  his  line,  and 
he  swings  his  mules  and  horses  about 
the  corners  and  grazes  the  walls  in  a 
hair-breadth  manner  which  is  fairly 
startling. 

Finally  the  bus  enters  a  street,  straight- 
er  and  wider  than  the  rest,  with  arcades 
and  a  few  shops,  with  colored  calicos 
hanging  in  the  windows.  There  is  even 
an  advertisement  of  Singer  Sewing 
Machines  placarded  on  a  stucco  wall, 
but  before  you  have  had  time  to  recover 
from  astonishment  at  this  incongruous 
evidence  of  modernism,  the  huge  vehicle 
189 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

stops  before  a  door,  where  you  read  the 
sign  "Fonda  de  Europa"  painted  dingily 
over  the  door.  The  smirking  fondista  is 
there  to  greet  you,  and  hungry  and 
shivering  you  descend  in  the  hope  of 
finding  warmth  and  comfort.  But  alas, 
it  is  colder  within  doors  than  outside, 
where  the  sun  tempers  the  chilly  air. 
There  is  a  cheerless  caf6  downstairs 
where  a  few  of  the  "quality"  of  the 
town  are  hidden  behind  copies  of  "El 
Imparcial"  and  "El  Liberal."  The 
pavement  is  stone,  and  the  wind  whis- 
tles through  every  crack  and  crevice  of 
the  squeaky  old  door  and  windows.  The 
fumes  of  a  single  charcoal  brazier  as- 
phyxiate the  air  without  adding  one 
degree  to  the  warmth.  In  self  defense 
you  are  driven  to  strong  drink,  but 
even  the  aguardiente  which  the  cigarette 
smoking  waiter  brings  you  fails  to  warm 
your  shivering  body.  There  is  no  cold 
which  penetrates  like  Castilian  cold. 
In  the  sun  when  walking  it  is  possible 
to  keep  warm,  but  indoors,  no  matter 
190 


Provincial  Towns 

how   warmly    one    may   be   clothed,    it 
penetrates  to  the  marrow. 

At  the  breakfast  hour  you  wander  into 
the  cheerless  dining  room  and  take  your 
seat  at  the  long  table,  bowing  in  Spanish 
fashion  to  each  of  the  guests.  The 
assemblage  is  composed  of  the  Spanish 
bourgeoisie,  and  it  would  be  difficult  to 
find  persons  more  unattractive.  A  fat 
old  man  with  a  forbidding  scowl  occupies 
the  head  of  the  table,  his  skin  is  oily  and 
his  head  is  bald ;  he  is  talking  vocifer- 
ously and  shoveling  in  food  with  his 
knife  between  the  words.  He  is  evident- 
ly a  guest  of  importance  in  the  commer- 
cial sense,  for  the  waiter  serves  him 
obsequiously.  Next  him  is  a  bride  from 
Bilboa,  with  her  shop-keeper  husband. 
Like  most  young  Spanish  women,  she 
has  the  olive  skin  blended  with  dark  red, 
which  is  so  attractive  a  feature  of  Span- 
ish beauty.  Her  abundant  hair  has  a 
rare  gloss,  and  her  large  black  eyes  are 
soulful,  but  alas,  she  eats  with  her  knife 
and  picks  her  teeth.  She  is  dull,  too, 
191 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

and  has  little  intelligence  beyond  animal 
instincts.  Her  husband  has  keen  little 
eyes  which  twitch  excitedly.  His  napkin 
covers  the  greater  portion  of  his  bosom, 
and  he  seems  to  live  to  eat,  judging  by 
the  way  he  consumes  his  gazpacho. 
There  is  a  drummer  from  Madrid  who 
shows  his  metropolitan  superiority  in  his 
contemptuous  manner,  and  a  little 
sallow-faced  fellow  with  sunken  features, 
who  in  America  one  would  take  for  a 
second-rate  actor,  but  as  he  never  says  a 
word,  and  slinks  away  with  a  half  fright- 
ened manner  before  the  repast  is  finished, 
one  is  at  a  loss  to  decipher  his  calling. 
It  will  be  strange  if  there  be  not  at  that 
table  a  portly  matron  with  bulging  jowls 
and  an  incipient  moustache,  who  sternly 
eyes  her  meek  -  faced  daughter  and 
replies  in  guttural  monosyllables  to  the 
occasional  remarks  of  her  diminutive 
husband.  The  conversation  is  not  gen- 
eral, occasional  remarks  are  addressed  at 
random  by  the  man  of  importance  at  the 
head  of  the  table.  The  drummer  from 
192 


Provincial  Towns 

Madrid  tries  to  talk  to  the  bride  from 
Bilboa,  but  the  eyes  of  the  bridegroom 
twitch  so  excitedly  that  he  desists  and 
addresses  a  remark  to  the  sallow-faced 
unknown,  who  replies  with  a  sickly  smile 
and  steals  away.  Finally  the  fat  old 
man  at  the  head  of  the  table  discovers 
that  you  are  an  American,  and  enters 
into  a  violent  discussion  about  American 
interference  in  Cuba.  It  is  far  from 
pleasant,  but  it  makes  you  forget  the  cold 
and  the  bad  food,  and  for  a  time  you 
feel  less  lonesome.  After  all,  the  people 
are  no  more  vulgar  nor  the  food  worse 
than  one  would  find  at  a  hotel  in  a 
western  town. 

Sometimes  in  those  provincial  inns  you 
are  the  only  guest.  The  waiter  then 
beomes  your  companion,  and  when  the 
meal  is  finished  you  have  learned  the 
gossip  of  the  village,  the  names  of  the 
people  of  importance,  the  woes  of  the 
land,  the  peccadillos  of  the  parish  priest, 
and  all  that  is  of  interest  in  the  prosaic 
lives  of  the  people. 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

There  is  little  to  be  seen  in  most  pro- 
vincial towns  beyond  the  streets  and  the 
people,  but  one  who  has  a  fondness  for 
life  and  color  and  graceful  outline,  finds 
much  to  interest  him  at  every  step. 
There  is  the  narrow  street  rambling 
away  before  you,  with  no  apparent  regard 
for  rectilinearity,  its  white- walled  houses 
shining  in  the  sunlight,  or  dark  in 
shadow,  its  smooth  cobble  stones  undu- 
lated and  time-worn  by  the  tread  of 
generations  of  villagers.  Street  urchins 
play  in  the  sun,  housewives  loll  in  the 
doorways,  patient  donkeys  amble  by, 
their  little  bodies  almost  hidden  by  huge 
straw  panniers  filled  with  charcoal  or 
shining  pottery.  As  you  saunter  along 
you  pass  the  door  of  the  parish  church 
with  its  inevitable  coterie  of  beggars. 
The  chanting  of  priests  attracts  you 
within,  and  standing  there  uncovered 
you  view  for  a  while  the  impressive 
religious  scene.  The  church  is  dismal 
and  cold,  and  the  ghost  -  like  figures 
kneeling  in  prayer  seem  not  of  this 
194 


i~ 


A     TABERNA 


Provincial  Towns 

world.  Candles  glimmer  on  the  altar, 
and  little  lamps  burn  dimly  before  the 
shrines  of  saints;  the  distant  chapels  are 
lost  in  gloom,  and  the  air  you  breathe  is 
of  the  tomb.  From  the  choir  comes  the 
sombre  droning  of  the  priests,  and  the 
kneeling  women  mumble  and  cross 
themselves  in  reverence. 

But  the  sun  is  shining  in  the  street 
outside  and  the  white  houses  and  blue 
Spanish  sky  make  you  forget  the  sombre 
religious  gloom.  There  is  a  taberna  at 
the  corner,  too,  and  your  bones  have 
been  chilled  in  that  cold  church,  so  you 
wander  in  and  bow  to  the  landlord  and  his 
patrons.  "Una  copita  de  aguardiente, ' ' 
the  drink  of  the  country,  is  the  order 
you  give,  and  while  sipping  the  distilled 
anise  seed,  you  have  time  to  gaze  about 
and  examine  the  place.  The  room  is  low 
and  dingy.  There  is  a  long  counter  on 
which  the  fat  proprietor  is  leaning,  and 
behind  him  are  a  row  of  casks  and  shelves 
with  huge  bottles  of  red  wine.  A  couple 
of  tables  and  some  rough  chairs  complete 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

the  furniture,  and  under  the  tables  char- 
coal braziers  are  smouldering.  Some 
smooth  -  faced  Spaniards,  with  broad 
brimmed  felt  hats  and  graceful  capas,  are 
huddled  about  the  braziers  drinking.  You 
praise  the  aguardiente  and  the  garrulous 
landlord  proudly  states  that  it  is  his  own 
distilling.  Nothing  will  do  but  you  must 
see  his  still,  so  meekly  following  his  lead 
you  walk  through  intricate  byways  for 
perhaps  half  a  mile  to  a  deserted  con- 
vent. There  in  an  old  court,  moss- 
grown  and  crumbling,  he  has  installed 
his  apparatus.  It  is  characteristic  of 
laggard  Spain.  A  charcoal  fire  smould- 
ers under  a  huge  earthen  retort,  where 
the  wine  is  boiled,  and  the  distilling 
process  is  completed  by  passing  the 
liquid  through  three  coils  of  pipe  chilled 
in  a  tub  of  water.  In  another  corner  of 
the  court  stands  a  primitive  wine  press, 
worked  by  a  huge  wooden  screw  and  a 
long  wooden  lever  weighted  at  one  end 
by  stones.  The  proprietor  is  as  proud 
of  this  simple  "plant"  as  though  it  were 
196 


Provincial  Towns 

an  enormous  industry  with  all  the  con- 
trivances of  modern  skill. 

On  the  way  back  to  the  taberna  he 
regales  you  with  minute  details  of  his 
profits  and  business  prospects,  and  not 
satisfied  with  this,  he  must  show  you  his 
house,  and  the  vaults  where  his  wine  is 
stored.  It  is  worth  seeing,  for  it  is  typi- 
cal of  the  country.  There  is  a  stone 
paved  patio  or  court,  where  the  women 
of  the  family  are  grinding  corn,  just  as 
the  women  did  in  the  days  of  Moorish 
Spain,  and  in  the  living  rooms  above  you 
get  an  idea  of  how  a  Spanish  family 
lives.  The  bedrooms  are  small  but  neat, 
with  red  counterpanes  upon  the  beds 
and  lithographs  of  saints  upon  the  walls, 
but  space  is  begrudged,  and  in  the  living 
room  and  kitchen,  casks  and  bottles  and 
bunches  of  grapes  and  raisins  are  stored. 
There  is  a  smell  of  garlic  and  oil,  and  a 
feeling  of  dampness  everywhere,  and 
although  the  patio,  with  its  graceful 
arches  and  crumbling  stairways  where 
clothes  are  drying  and  the  women  are 
197 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

squatting  before  their  corn,  would  at- 
tract a  painter,  it  is  not  what  we  call 
homelike.  One  is  glad  to  leave  the  odor 
of  garlic  and  the  dampness,  and  reach 
the  street  again  where  the  sun  is  shin- 
ing. 

There  is  the  market  place,  too,  with 
its  graceful  Moorish  colonnade  and  its 
canopied  booths,  its  piles  of  yellow  oran- 
ges, and  festoons  of  garlic.  Color  and 
life  are  there,  although  the  life  is  rather 
indolent,  for  the  market  men  are  mostly 
sleeping  in  the  sun,  and  the  donkeys 
blink  their  eyes  as  they  stand  patiently 
awaiting  the  cry  of  arrht  borrico,  which 
summons  them  to  toil. 

The  hours  passed  in  a  provincial  town 
are  lazy  and  dreamy,  and  you  care  not 
for  time;  but  they  are  hours  to  be  long 
remembered,  for  time  seems  to  have 
been  turned  back  a  century  at  least. 

You  wonder,  too,  if  the  nineteenth 
century,  with  all  its  bustle  and  activity, 
has  brought  more  contentment  and  hap- 
piness to  mankind.  Is  not  the  listless 
198 


Provincial  Towns 

Spaniard  sleeping  in  the  sun  as  happy 
and  contented  as  man  ever  is?  But  the 
philosophy  of  indolence  is  difficult  to 
defend  even  from  the  standpoint  of  epi- 
cureanism, while  even  in  those  provincial 
towns  there  are  monuments  of  activity 
and  greatness  side  by  side  with  the  evi- 
dence of  modern  sloth.  If  the  town  be 
Ronda,  for  instance,  you  may  lean  upon 
the  iron  paling  of  the  Alameda,  and, 
gazing  over  the  valley  of  the  Guadale- 
vin,  be  reminded  of  the  prowess  of  the 
Moor,  and  the  energy  of  the  Spaniard 
in  days  gone  by.  The  purple  mountains 
stand  out  bold  and  clear  against  the  sky, 
and  the  river  dashes  through  the  famous 
gorge  a  thousand  feet  below.  Ancient 
Ronda  perched  upon  a  spur  of  rocks  looks 
down  upon  the  rushing  waters;  the 
Moorish  mills  are  grinding  corn  as  in  the 
days  of  Hamet  El  Zegri,  the  last  alcaide 
of  Arab  rule.  The  black  river  flows 
swiftly  past  the  caves  where  Christian 
captives  dwelt,  and  surges  under  the 
noble  bridge  above  only  to  dash  angrily 
199 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

against  the  walls  of  the  rocky  chasm  and 
then  subside  into  a  meek  and  submissive 
stream  beyond. 

Unconsciously  do  you  think  of  the 
stirring  days  of  Moorish  warfare.  The 
alcaide  Hamet  El  Zegri  is  returning  with 
his  gomeres  from  a  raid  in  the  vast  cam- 
pinas  of  the  duke  of  Medina  Sidonia. 
Spurring  his  horse  up  a  craggy  height  he 
expects  to  behold  his  fair  Ronda  repos- 
ing safely  as  when  he  left,  but  what  is  his 
consternation  at  seeing  the  white  tents 
of  a  besieging  army  dotting  the  hillside, 
and  the  royal  standard  of  Ferdinand 
flapping  gently  in  the  breeze.  Impotent 
to  assail  such  a  force  he  smites  his 
breast  with  rage,  while  the  cannons  and 
lombards  of  the  royal  army  batter  down 
the  towers  and  ramparts  of  his  beloved 
city.  Such  are  the  fortunes  of  war. 
And  Ronda,  the  impregnable,  falls  an 
easy  prey  to  the  science  of  gunnery, 
then  in  the  experimental  stage  of  its 
development. 

Perhaps  the  provincial  town  where  you 

200 


Provincial  Towns 

are  tarrying  is  stern  Segovia,  all  ruin,  all 
poverty,  massive  and  austere.  An 
aqueduct  of  Trajan  spans  the  town  with 
its  three  hundred  granite  arches,  a  mar- 
velous monument  of  Roman  skill,  but  an 
old  beggar  dozing  beneath  its  walls,  tells 
you  that  the  devil  built  it  in  a  single 
night  to  save  a  fair  Segoviana  with  whom 
he  was  in  love,  the  trouble  of  going  down 
to  the  river  for  water.  Of  course  the 
maiden  was  touched  by  the  attention 
and  listened  to  his  jardbe  de  pico,  or 
honeyed  words.  But  Segovia,  the  proud 
hidalgo  of  Old  Castile,  did  not  always 
sleep  quietly  in  the  sun.  Its  silent 
streets  once  resounded  with  the  cries  of 
an  excited  mob.  It  was  in  the  early 
days  of  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Charles, 
when  the  people,  ever  jealous  of  their 
rights,  became  infuriated  at  a  submissive 
cortes  for  voting  imperial  grants  without 
obtaining  redress  for  popular  grievances. 
Tordesillas,  the  representative  of  Sego- 
via, being  a  bold  and  haughty  man,  re- 
turned to  his  native  city  to  defend  his 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

conduct,  and  according  to  custom  sum- 
moned his  fellow  townsmen  to  the  church 
that  he  might  give  an  account  of  his 
actions  in  the  cortes.  But  the  multitude, 
infuriated  at  his  insolence  in  attempting 
to  justify  conduct  they  deemed  inexcus- 
able, burst  open  the  doors  of  the  church, 
and  seizing  Tordesillas  dragged  him 
through  the  streets  with  curses  and 
insults  towards  the  place  of  public  exe- 
cution. The  dean  and  canons  came 
forth  with  the  holy  sacrament  to  awe  the 
mob;  the  monks  in  the  monasteries,  by 
which  the  luckless  deputy  was  dragged 
prayed  on  their  knees,  that  his  life  be 
spared,  or  at  least,  that  he  be  allowed 
time  for  absolution,  but  without  regard 
for  humanity  or  religion,  they  hung  their 
victim  up  head  downwards  on  the  com- 
mon gibbet.  That  was  the  beginning  of 
the  revolt  of  the  comuneros,  an  impotent 
attempt  of  the  common  people  to  over- 
come their  masters,  the  nobility.  It 
called  forth  one  patriot  and  one  brave 
unselfish  woman  in  the  persons  of  Juan 

202 


Provincial  Towns 

de  Padilla  and  his  courageous  wife,  but 
they  fell  prey  to  treachery,  and  the 
result  was  a  tightening  of  the  screws  of 
oppression. 

An  instructive  story  might  be  written 
on  the  different  struggles  of  Spaniards  for 
the  preservation  of  their  fueros,  or  rights, 
for  political  liberty  was  known  in  Spain 
before  it  was  in  England,  and  the  cortes 
antedates  parliament,  but  in  Spain  during 
the  Middle  Ages,  the  king  usurped  the 
rights  of  the  people,  whereas  in  England, 
the  people  curtailed  the  rights  of  the 
king.  But  all  that  is  mere  digression, 
suggested  by  the  deserted  streets  of 
Segovia,  deserted  except  for  the  occa- 
sional passing  of  a  peasant  and  his 
donkey,  or  the  tread  of  a  group  of  artil- 
lery cadets. 

The  royal  artillery  school,  like  most- 
schools  and  prisons  of  Spain,  is  situated 
in  one  of  the  sequestrated  convents.  The 
cadets  are  dapper  little  fellows,  in  smart 
uniforms,  who  live  as  they  please  in 
quarters  about  the  town,  and  attend  the 
203 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

lectures  and  drills.  The  artillery  vies 
with  a  few  cavalry  regiments  as  crack 
corps  of  the  Spanish  army,  and  perhaps 
some  of  your  friends  in  Madrid  have 
given  you  a  line  of  introduction  to  some 
son  or  cousin,  who  is  pursuing  his  studies 
in  Segovia.  You  find  your  cadet  friend 
living  with  one  or  two  chums  in  one  of 
the  old  houses  of  the  town.  He  has  his 
family  nurse  with  him,  who  has  brought 
him  up  from  childhood,  and  who  now 
looks  tenderly  after  her  ward  during  his 
cadet  days,  by  brewing  his  coffee,  mend- 
ing his  clothes,  and  making  his  bed. 
Fancy  a  West  Point  cadet  with  a  nurse. 
But  these  young  gunners  are  good  fel- 
lows, and  they  invite  you  to  luncheon, 
and  try  to  amuse  you  to  the  best  of  their 
ability,  by  showing  the  school  with  its 
usual  complement  of  desks  and  black- 
boards and  physical  apparatus,  not  to 
mention  a  museum  of  guns  and  military 
appliances,  and  they  are  no  doubt  glad 
when  you  are  gone,  and  amuse  them- 
selves by  making  fun  of  you  behind  your 
204 


Provincial  Towns 

back,  as  students  in  all  lands  are  very 
much  the  same. 

At  Toledo  the  royal  infantry  school 
is  situated,  but  you  visit  that  with  the 
governor;  the  drum  beats,  the  boys 
stand  in  ranks  and  salute,  and  inwardly 
vote  you  an  intruder  for  causing  unnec- 
essary duty.  There  is  a  lack  of  smartness, 
however,  about  the  Spanish  cadets,  a 
laxity  of  discipline,  which  must  have  its 
effect  upon  the  Spanish  army.  One 
would  like  to  say  much  of  Toledo,  be- 
cause it  is  the  most  typical  of  Spanish 
cities,  with  its  Moorish  walls  and  sombre 
Spanish  houses  piled  high  on  a  hill  top, 
its  mighty  cathedral,  its  churches,  and 
its  ancient  synagogues.  No  finer  view 
is  to  be  had  in  Spain  than  that  of 
Toledo,  cold  and  grey  against  the  blue 
sky,  with  the  dark  Tagus  rushing  be- 
neath the  graceful  arches  of  its  bridges. 
But  Toledo  is  the  see  of  an  archbishop 
and  the  seat  of  the  governor  of  a  pro- 
vince, so  it  is  scarcely  a  provincial 
town,  and  would  deserve  a  chapter  by 
205 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

itself,  if  it  were  to  be  done  even  partial 
justice. 

Perhaps  the  saddest  provincial  town 
one  may  visit  is  Alcald  de  Henares,  the 
birth  place  of  Cervantes,  and  seat  of  the 
great  university  established  by  Cardinal 
Ximenes.  There  is  not  even  an  omni- 
bus at  the  station  to  meet  you,  and  you 
are  obliged  to  walk  along  the  dusty, 
tree-lined  road  which  leads  to  the  town, 
and  find  the  way  as  best  you  may  to  the 
dirty  Fonda  del  Hidalgo,  where  you  are 
probably  the  only  guest.  The  guide 
book  says  that  the  immortal  Cervantes 
was  born  in  a  street  north  of  the  Calle 
Mayor,  and  that  the  site  of  the  house  is 
marked  by  an  inscription  let  into  a  wall, 
but  neither  the  innkeeper,  the  parish 
priest,  the  shopkeepers,  nor  the  army 
officers  strutting  in  the  streets  are  able 
to  indicate  the  spot.  There  is  a  miser- 
able theatre  bearing  the  name  Cervantes 
and  some  of  the  inhabitants  maintain 
that  it  is  erected  on  the  spot  of  Cervan- 
tes' house,  but  certainly  the  great  humor- 
206 


Provincial  Towns 

ist  is  as  unhonored  by  his  fellow  townsmen 
after  death  as  during  his  sad  life.  While 
a  slave  in  Algiers  he  was  a  man  of  impor- 
tance both  feared  and  respected,  a  leader 
among  men;  but  in  his  native  Spain, 
merely  a  prophet  without  honor  and 
without  competence. 

The  great  university  of  Alcald,  the 
pride  of  its  founder,  is  but  a  ruin.  A 
few  primary  scholars  mumble  their 
alphabets  to  a  priest  in  its  sacred  halls, 
but  the  arcades  are  crumbling  and  the 
stones  are  moss-grown.  There  is  little 
to  recall  the  flourishing  days  of  an  in- 
stitution which  within  twenty-five  years 
of  its  founding  sent  seven  thousand  stu- 
dents forth  to  greet  King  Francis  I.  of 
France,  the  royal  prisoner  of  Emperor 
Charles,  and  caused  him  to  exclaim: 
"Your  Ximenes  has  executed  more  than 
I  should  have  dared  to  conceive;  he  has 
done  with  his  single  hand  what  in  France 
it  has  taken  a  line  of  kings  to  accom- 
plish." 

Ximenes  was  a  man  of  resources  and 
207 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

modern  ideas.  Two  provisions  of  his 
university  charter  might  bear  emulation 
to-day.  The  salary  of  a  professor  was 
regulated  by  the  number  of  his  students, 
and  his  tenure  of  office  was  only  for  four 
years,  when  he  became  eligible  for  reap- 
pointment.  There  were  no  sinecures 
where  stern  Ximenes  was  master. 

As  Spanish  trains  run  at  unseasonable 
hours,  sometimes  starting  just  before 
dawn,  when  you  leave  a  provincial  town 
it  is  usually  at  night.  But  a  Spanish 
town  by  night  is  perhaps  more  attractive 
than  by  day.  Lamps  flicker  at  the 
street  corners,  weird  figures  in  flowing 
cloaks  saunter  idly  by,  or  stand  in  groups 
discussing  the  events  of  the  day.  The 
little  shops  are  lighted,  and  the  articles 
displayed  for  sale  assume  fantastic 
forms,  while  from  time  to  time  the  sere- 
no,  or  night  watchman,  trudges  by  with 
his  pike  and  lantern,  calling  forth  the 
hour  and  the  state  of  the  weather.  The 
omnibus  which  takes  you  from  the  fonda 
to  the  station  is  driven  by  a  loquacious 
208 


Provincial  Towns 

fellow,  who  prattles  away  to  his  mules 
and  you,  seemingly  without  distinction. 
The  streets  are  filled  with  people,  for 
above  all  things  the  Spaniard  delights  in 
strolling.  All  classes  are  there,  old 
men  with  stooping  shoulders  and  halting 
step;  young  gallants,  matones  or  town 
bullies,  priests,  soldiers  and  beggars, 
passing  and  repassing.  Smart  young 
officers  strut  by  with  clanking  swords 
and  rattling  spurs,  eying  the  dark-eyed 
girls,  who  saunter  past  in  groups,  and 
from  the  taberna  comes  the  hum  of 
voices  and  the  click  of  the  castanet. 
Then  as  the  team  of  mules  swings  into  a 
more  deserted  by-way,  you  pass  the 
cloaked  figure  of  a  lover  earnestly  whis- 
pering at  some  window,  and  hearing  the 
half  suppressed  ripple  of  a  woman's 
laugh,  you  know  that  the  damsel  behind 
the  bars  has  been  the  recipient  of  extra- 
vagant words  of  love.  Perhaps  the 
clatter  of  the  mules  disturbs  the  song  of 
a  solitary  guitarist  who  is  gazing  upwards 
toward  a  balcony,  for  at  night  the  Anda- 
209 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

lusian  swain  of  whatever  degree  is 
pelando  el  pavo,  plucking  the  turkey,  as 
they  call  their  window  love-making 
there  in  the  south.  Then  silent  streets 
with  darkened  houses  are  reached  and 
the  lumbering  omnibus  rattles  on  into 
the  night.  In  the  distance  down  the 
long  straight  roadway  where  poplars 
rise  against  the  black  sky,  the  lights  of 
the  railway  station  glimmer  faintly. 

The  provincial  town  has  been  left  be- 
hind, sleeping  as  it  has  slept  for  a  full 
century,  unmindful  of  time,  caring 
naught  for  the  onward  march  of  progress, 
but  above  all,  seemingly  content  with  its 
humble  lot. 


UNA    BAILERINA 


The  Common  People 

THE  redeeming  feature  of  the  Span- 
ish nation  is  the  common  people. 
Howsoever  much  one  may  condemn  the 
rulers  or  despise  the  priesthood,  the 
lowly  Spaniard,  in  spite  of  his  many 
faults,  commands  respect.  He  has  a 
democratic  air  about  him,  a  sort  of 
mingling  of  civility  with  a  sense  of 
equality  which  is  very  fascinating,  and 
the  more  one  sees  of  him  the  more  diffi- 
cult it  is  to  understand  how  a  people 
with  such  a  peasantry  should  occupy  so 
secondary  a  place  among  the  nations. 
The  Spaniard  is  certainly  a  patient  crea- 
ture, else  he  would  not  have  endured  so 
much.  Perhaps  he  is  a  philosopher  and 
realizes  that  in  poverty  lies  the  true  solu- 
tion of  happiness.  To  have  nothing, 
and  to  want  nothing,  certainly  robs  life 

211 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

of  the  greater  portion  of  its  worries. 
Evidently  the  lowly  Spaniard  believes 
thoroughly  in  the  maxim  that  sufficient 
unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,  for  he 
goes  through  life  with  a  patience  and  a 
cheerfulness  which  are  refreshing.  Only 
in  Barcelona,  where  he  has  been  tainted 
with  modern  unrest,  does  he  seem  to 
fret,  and  with  rare  irony  he  throws  aside 
his  air  of  contented  humility  to  become 
an  anarchist.  But  the  Catalan  has  never 
been  a  true  Spaniard. 

One  must  turn  to  the  wind-swept 
plains  of  Castile,  or  better  still,  to  sunny 
Andalusia,  to  find  the  true  son  of  the 
soil.  The  Castilian,  like  his  land,  is 
sombre  and  cold.  He  is  self-contained 
and  proud,  and  although  he  walks 
abroad  with  an  air  of  equality,  not  to 
say  superiority  to  his  fellowmen,  he  is 
apt  to  be  morose  and  unbending.  He 
does  not  open  up  his  heart,  and  when  he 
smiles  it  is  with  a  forbidding  air  of  re- 
serve. The  Galician,  or  even  the 
Navarrese,  is  a  far  better  fellow;  but  to 


The  Common  People 

find  the  Spaniard  at  his  best  one  must 
turn  to  fair  Andalusia.  There  all  is 
cheerful  and  bright;  the  sun  is  ever 
shining  and  the  castanet  is  clicking,  the 
girls  are  ever  smiling,  and  the  gallants 
under  the  balconies  sigh  and  whisper 
words  of  love  with  an  ardor  which  is 
truly  of  the  south.  The  Andalusian  is  a 
child  of  nature,  who  breathes  the  free  air 
of  heaven  as  though  it  belonged  to  him. 
He  is  impulsive  and  natural,  and  he 
walks  with  a  careless  swing  which  is  at 
once  jaunty  and  self-respecting.  His 
morals  may  not  be  all  that  one  might 
ask,  but  his  manners  are  the  best  in  the 
world.  He  has  just  enough  of  courtli- 
ness not  to  be  oppressive,  and  just 
enough  of  familiarity  not  to  breed  con- 
tempt. He  respects  himself,  and  conse- 
quently other  people  respect  him.  Un- 
like the  Castilian,  he  unburdens  his 
heart  to  a  stranger  and  makes  you  feel 
at  once  at  your  ease.  All  that  he  asks 
is  to  be  treated  as  a  man.  Offer  him  a 
cigarette  and  be  he  the  humblest  of  beg- 
213 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

gars,  he  will  receive  it  in  a  manner  that 
assures  you  of  friendliness  tempered  by 
respect,  but  brush  him  aside  with  an 
air  of  contempt  and  he  will  leave  no 
means  untried  to  make  your  life  uncom- 
fortable. 

English  travelers  whose  manner  to- 
ward servants  is  invariably  overbearing, 
do  not  find  themselves  well  served  in 
Spain ;  but  no  servants  in  the  world  are 
more  considerate  of  your  wishes,  more 
attentive  to  your  wants,  than  those  of 
the  Peninsula,  if  they  are  treated  as 
though  they  are  human.  A  friendly 
word  or  a  smile  goes  further  than  a 
handful  of  silver. 

It  may  seem  rather  familiar,  even  to 
an  American,  to  have  the  waiter  who 
serves  you  in  a  restaurant,  stand  behind 
your  chair  smoking  a  cigarette,  but  that 
is  purely  a  matter  of  custom.  It  might 
also  appear  objectionable  to  have  the 
waiter  at  your  hotel  enter  into  the  con- 
versation while  he  is  serving  you,  but  he 
does  this  rarely,  and  then  only  with  a 

3I4 


The  Common  People 

desire  to  impart  some  bit  of  information 
or  correct  an  erroneous  impression  he 
chances  to  overhear.  He  realizes  that 
he  is  human,  but  unlike  some  of  his 
American  prototypes,  he  does  not  be- 
come obtrusive  with  an  overbearing  man- 
ner of  equality,  not  to  say  superiority. 

The  Spaniard  has  been  misgoverned 
for  so  many  centuries  that  he  has  grown 
to  look  upon  the  government  as  a  legiti- 
mate prey.  The  government  defrauds 
him;  therefore  he  will  defraud  the  gov- 
ernment when  the  opportunity  presents 
itself.  He  is  consequently  by  nature  a 
smuggler.  In  addition  to  the  national 
custom  house  at  all  seaports,  and  the 
frontier,  each  city  has  its  own  octroi,  so 
that  the  temptation  and  the  opportunity 
to  smuggle  are  unusually  great.  To- 
bacco, being  a  government  monopoly, 
is  the  popular  contraband,  and  in  spite 
of  the  carbineers  who  swarm  along  the 
coast,  and  the  fleet  of  coast  guard  ships, 
the  inhabitants  of  the  seaport  towns  do 
not  appear  to  have  much  difficulty  in 
215 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

evading  the  authorities.  Their  methods 
are  at  times  rather  brazen.  For  in- 
stance, on  leaving  Algeciras  which, 
owing  to  its  proximity  to  free  trade 
Gibraltar,  is  a  nest  of  smugglers,  the 
conductor  of  the  train  entered  the  com- 
partment, and  after  glancing  about  with 
a  mysterious  air,  he  lifted  the  cushions 
of  the  seats  and  proceeded  to  fill  his 
pockets  with  packages  of  tobacco,  which 
had  been  put  in  a  first-class  carriage  as 
the  place  least  likely  to  be  investigated 
by  the  authorities.  On  being  asked  if 
he  was  not  afraid  of  detection  he  said 
that  he  was  perfectly  safe  at  the  hands 
of  first-class  travelers,  because  they 
were  invariably  gentlemen.  The  offer  of 
a  contraband  Egyptian  cigarette  doubly 
reassured  him,  and  as  fellow  smugglers 
we  sat  down  and  smoked  together.  He 
had  been  a  conductor  of  the  line  since 
its  opening  a  few  years  ago,  and  had 
carried  on  quite  a  thriving  contraband 
trade.  At  each  station  he  disappeared, 
only  to  return  again  to  refill  his  pockets. 
216 


The  Common  People 

In  this  manner  his  stock  was  disposed 
of  to  confederates  all  along  the  line 
from  Algeciras  to  Ronda. 

The  carbineers,  too,  judging  by  the 
avidity  with  which  they  pass  one's  bag- 
gage when  no  one  is  looking,  must  share 
the  profits  of  many  a  contraband  trans- 
action. Such  peculation,  however,  is 
not  confined  to  Spain.  There  are  some 
Spanish  officials  who  are  incorruptible 
and  those  in  places  where  their  example 
should  prove  most  salutary;  that  is  to 
say  in  the  prisons.  One  remembers 
visiting  some  half  dozen  prisons  in  dif- 
ferent Spanish  cities,  and  each  time  the 
accompanying  guard,  though  his  salary 
was  but  a  pittance,  politely  though  reluc- 
tantly refused  a  fee  for  his  trouble,  by 
saying  that  receiving  gratuities  was 
absolutely  prohibited. 

It  is  the  custom  for  the  waiters  in  the 
hotels  to  pool  their  tips.  All  the  fees 
are  turned  into  a  common  fund  and 
shared  at  the  end  of  the  month.  You 
therefore  do  not  tip  individual  waiters,  but 
217 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

on  leaving  the  hotel  you  give  the  head 
waiter  a  sum  to  be  divided  among  them 
all.  At  the  hotel  in  Granada  there  was 
a  waiter  who  remembered  the  writer 
from  a  former  visit  fourteen  years  be- 
fore, and  who  was  at  the  same  time  un- 
usually attentive.  Desiring  to  give  the 
man  a  special  reward  which  should  not 
be  shared  with  the  others,  he  was  pre- 
sented with  a  separate  sum  and  requested 
not  to  divide  it  with  his  fellow  servants. 
At  the  time  of  leaving  the  hotel,  when 
the  waiters  were  gathered  together  to 
receive  their  conventional  tip,  this  over- 
honest  servant  told  the  others  that  he  had 
already  received  a  sum  apart,  which  he 
felt  in  duty  bound  to  contribute  to  the 
general  fund.  It  might  be  added  that  he 
was  a  widower  with  seven  young  children. 
Spain  is  probably  the  most  conservative 
nation  in  Europe.  Outside  the  larger 
cities  the  country  has  been  at  a  standstill 
for  centuries.  The  ploughing  is  still 
done  with  wooden  plows,  the  wheat  is 
threshed  with  flails,  the  wine  is  preserved 
218 


The  Common  People 

in  goat  skins.  The  arriero  still  trudges 
beside  his  string  of  mules,  livening  his 
weary  way  with  song  as  he  did  in  the 
days  of  Don  Quixote,  and  the  ventero 
greets  the  traveler  at  the  wayside  inn 
and  regales  him  with  the  gossip  of  the 
neighborhood  just  as  his  sires  have  done 
for  centuries.  The  court  of  the  posada  is 
still  crowded  with  huge  high  carts,  and 
the  muleteers,  huddled  about  a  charcoal 
brazier,  sip  their  aguardiente,  while  the 
sereno  trudges  past  with  his  lantern  and 
pike  calling  forth  the  hour  and  the  state 
of  the  weather. 

The  common  people  of  Spain  are  so 
unlike  those  of  other  nations;  they  are 
so  thoroughly  the  children  of  the  soil, 
untainted  by  contact  with  the  world, 
that  a  lover  of  the  picturesque  is  apt  to 
overlook,  in  his  enthusiasm  for  their  ar- 
tistic qualities,  the  fact  that  they  must 
be  slothful  and  ambitionless  to  be  con- 
tented with  their  stagnate  existence.  It 
is  perhaps  unfair  to  call  them  slothful, 
for  they  work  faithfully  and  long,  but 
219 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

they  eschew  machinery,  and  ask  no  bet- 
ter lot  than  that  of  their  fathers. 

The  laboring  classes  in  other  countries 
are  apt  to  look  askance  upon  their  supe- 
riors and  treat  them  with  suspicion,  but 
the  Spanish  artizan  will  invite  you  to 
share  his  sour  wine  or  coarse  bread  with- 
out the  slightest  hesitation.  He  will 
talk  with  you  as  man  to  man,  and  yet 
without  a  semblance  of  disrespect. 
Chancing  to  enter  a  Sevillian  pottery  on 
New  Year's  morning  one  heard  the  sound 
of  voices  and  the  click  of  castanets  in 
the  court  beyond.  The  proprietor  ex- 
plained that  he  was  giving  his  workmen 
a  little  entertainment  in  honor  of  the 
day,  and  extended  an  invitation  to  par- 
ticipate in  the  festivities.  Gathered  in 
the  court  were  some  thirty  potters 
dressed  in  holiday  attire.  The  proprie- 
tor's daughter  was  dancing  the  graceful 
Sevillana  with  one  of  her  father's  work- 
men, and  her  mother  was  dispensing 
cakes  and  aguardiente  to  the  gathering. 
The  employees  were  singing  and  keep- 


A     DANCING     GIRL 


The  Common  People 

ing  time  to  the  dancing  by  clapping  their 
hands,  and  one  has  never  seen  more 
happy  and  contented  faces  than  those 
Sevillian  workmen  presented  that  New 
Year's  morning. 

The  entrance  of  a  strange  foreigner 
might  appear  a  source  of  embarrass- 
ment, but  on  the  contrary  each  person 
present  greeted  one  with  a  friendly  smile 
and  a  word  of  welcome.  Aguardiente 
was  offered,  and  we  all  clicked  glasses 
and  drank  each  other's  healths  as  though 
we  had  been  life-long  friends.  Dances 
and  songs  followed  in  quick  succession. 
There  were  some  clever  comedians 
among  those  humble  potters.  One  in 
particular,  a  fat  little  chap  with  a  face 
like  Coquelin's,  might  have  won  fame 
on  any  stage.  His  grimaces  were  con- 
vulsing, and  he  had  a  quaint  humor  which 
was  irresistible.  He  was  the  popular 
favorite,  and  his  songs  were  greeted 
with  great  applause.  A  glass  of  aguar- 
diente handed  by  the  pretty  daughter  of 
the  house  was  sufficient  to  produce  an 

221 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

encore,  and  as  each  song  had  the  addi- 
tional inspiration  of  another  glass  they 
grew  more  amusing  and  more  ribald  as 
the  performance  progressed. 

One  song,  called  La  Monjita,  or  little 
nun,  he  prefaced  with  an  address  deliv- 
ered in  solemn,  priest-like  tones,  running 
somewhat  as  follows:  "  Ladies,  gentle- 
men and  distinguished  Yankees,  I  will 
now  sing  you  a  song  which  I  alone  am 
capable  of  rendering.  Others  may  whis- 
tle the  refrain  but  no  one  else  can  re- 
member the  words.  In  fact  I  do  not 
remember  them  myself,  but  having  a 
ready  wit  I  am  able  to  supply  the  defi- 
ciency at  a  moment's  notice.  The  like 
of  this  song  has  never  been  heard  in 
Triana,  or  even  Seville,  and  no  singer 
of  the  Cervantes  theatre  can  compete 
with  my  vocal  talent.  Were  I  not  too 
serious  and  virtuous  a  person  to  sing 
upon  the  stage  my  pockets  would  to-day 
be  overflowing  with  dollars,  and  the  pub- 
lic upon  their  knees  before  me.  This  song 
I  will  sing  in  the  language  of  old  Anda- 


The  Common  People 

lusia,  which  no  one  here  can  understand 
but  in  order  that  its  rare  humor  may 
not  escape  the  audience  entirely  I  will 
sing  each  alternate  verse  in  English." 

Then  he  began  singing  a  humorous 
but  indelicate  account  of  the  adventures 
of  a  young  nun,  seemingly  without  the 
least  regard  for  the  presence  of  the  pro- 
prietor's wife  and  daughter.  At  the 
end  of  each  stanza  he  solemnly  an- 
nounced that  the  next  verse  would  be 
sung  in  English. 

There  were  others,  too,  who  added  to 
the  merriment.  One  little  old  weazen- 
faced  Celtiberian,  with  an  Irish  cast  of 
countenance,  who  had  been  lulled  to 
sleep  in  the  corner  by  the  fumes  of  aguar- 
diente, suddenly  awoke  and  insisted 
upon  dancing  the  tango.  His  slow,  pre- 
cise movements,  to  a  dance  requiring 
unusual  agility,  were  most  comical. 

When  the  entertainment  was  over  we 

drank     again,    and     shook     hands    all 

around,   calling  each  other   friend  and 

brother,    all   in   a   feeling  of  pure  good 

223 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

fellowship.  But  wherever  you  chance 
to  meet  a  party  of  merrymakers  in  Anda- 
lusia the  reception  is  the  same;  you  are 
invited  to  share  their  food  and  drink, 
and  if  you  unbend  and  meet  them  half 
way  your  reception  is  so  cordial  and  sin- 
cere that  you  are  tempted  to  believe 
that  nowhere  is  the  spirit  of  thorough 
good  fellowship  so  rife  as  among  the 
common  people  of  Spain. 

The  women  of  the  people,  too,  are  more 
attractive  than  those  of  the  aristocracy. 
There  is  a  piquancy  and  dash  about 
them  which  is  refreshing.  Their  voices 
are  harsh,  but  their  black  eyes  are  filled 
with  fire,  and  the  poise  of  their  heads 
gives  them  an  air  of  coquettish  defiance. 
They  are  fond  of  color  and  seldom  fail 
to  wear  a  red  rose  caught  in  their  glossy 
hair.  The  hair  and  the  feet  of  Spanish 
girls  of  the  lower  classes  are  invariably 
neat.  They  wear  dainty  shoes,  and  their 
meager  wages  are  squandered  on  elabor- 
ate coiffures.  They  are  contented  with  a 
calico  gown  and  a  gay  colored  shawl 
224 


The  Common  People 

about  their  shoulders,  but  they  are  al- 
ways well  booted,  and  their  hair  is  ar- 
ranged in  the  latest  French  mode. 

Dancing  is  the  favorite  pastime  of  the 
Andalusian,  and  the  dancing  girls  of  Se- 
ville, Cadiz  and  Malaga  are  found  all  over 
Spain.  There  are  the  gypsies,  too,  but 
their  dancing  is  but  a  vulgar  variety  of 
the  movements  of  their  Gwazee  proto- 
types of  Egypt.  The  Sevillana,  how- 
ever, is  lithe  and  graceful,  and  the  dance 
which  bears  her  name  is  free  from  the 
sensuous  movements  of  other  dances, 
such  as  the  tango,  so  popular  in  the 
lower  class  of  cafe's  chantants.  Each 
city  in  the  south  of  Spain  has  its 
particular  dance,  such  as  the  baile  de 
Malaga,  etc.  There  are  special  dances, 
too,  like  the  baile  Manchera,  the  So- 
leada,  the  Fandango,  etc.  Some  for 
one  person,  some  in  which  two  (a  man 
and  a  girl)  face  each  other  and  dance  a 
paso  doble,  or  others  like  the  Fandango, 
in  which  a  number  take  part.  In  none 
of  them,  however,  do  the  dancers  join 
225 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

arms  as  in  waltzing,  and  invariably  the 
movements  of  the  arms  play  as  import- 
ant a  part  as  those  of  the  feet. 

The  girls  who  dance  in  the  cafe's  are 
professionals,  paid  for  their  work,  but 
they  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  dancing 
as  though  they  enjoyed  it.  Between  the 
dances  they  leave  the  stage  and  mix  with 
the  audience.  When  they  see  a  stranger 
they  come  and  take  a  seat  at  your  table 
and  ask  for  a  glass  of  manzanilla.  They 
are  very  naive  and  artless,  and  full  of 
life,  and  talk  of  nothing  but  their  art. 
Their  morality,  though  not  unimpeach- 
able, is  not  open  to  the  charge  of  sordid- 
ness.  Spaniards  say  that  although  each 
one  has  her  "querido,"  he  is  always  a 
man  of  the  people,  and  that  the  advan- 
ces of  wealthy  libertines  are  almost  in- 
variably repelled. 

Dancing,  however,  is  not  confined  to 
the  women  of  Spain;  the  men  are  often 
their  equals,  if  not  their  superiors.  They 
are  lighter  on  their  feet,  more  agile  in 
their  movements.  Without  exception 
226 


The  Common  People 

the  best  dancing  one  saw  in  Spain  was 
an  unpremeditated  baile  arranged  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment.  A  party  of  us 
were  breakfasting  on  Christmas  morning 
at  a  suburban  caf6  in  Seville;  a  couple 
of  clever  guitarists  had  been  called  in  to 
play  the  national  music.  When  break- 
fast was  over  and  we  were  smoking  our 
cigarettes,  one  of  the  musicians  sug- 
gested a  dance,  and  said  that  the  waiter 
was  no  mean  performer.  The  waiter, 
a  typical  Andalusian,  with  clean  cut 
features  and  a  slight  agile  figure,  who  per- 
formed his  labor  in  his  shirt  sleeves  and 
with  a  cigarette  between  his  lips,  pro- 
tested with  becoming  modesty,  that  he 
was  only  a  tyro,  but  that  our  cabman 
waiting  outside  was  a  "  Bailarin "  of 
great  prowess.  So  cabby  was  summoned 
from  his  perch  on  the  box,  and  after  be- 
ing well  fortified  with  a  glass  or  two  of 
the  wine  of  Jerez,  he  and  the  waiter  pro- 
ceeded to  dance  the  whole  gamut  of  An- 
dalusian dances,  the  rest  of  us  keeping 
time  with  our  hands  in  true  Spanish  fash- 
227 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

ion.  The  cabman  was  indeed  a  marvel. 
Never  has  one  seen  better  dancing;  he 
was  graceful  and  lithe,  and  his  move- 
ments had  the  finish  of  a  professional 
ballet  dancer.  He  threw  his  whole  heart 
into  his  work,  and  seemed  ready  to  con- 
tinue indefinitely.  The  waiter,  too,  was 
a  good  foil,  as  he  had  much  of  the  dry 
humor  of  Andalusia.  He  interpolated 
droll  remarks,  and  between  the  dances 
regaled  us  with  characteristic  songs  of 
the  people.  The  whole  affair  was  so  im- 
promptu, so  thoroughly  typical  of  the 
country,  that  as  a  performance  it  was  su- 
perior to  the  best  efforts  of  paid  profes- 
sionals. 

To  one  familiar  with  the  tenements 
of  the  larger  American  cities,  a  Spanish 
tenement  house,  or  "casa  de  vecinos, " 
(house  of  neighbors)  as  it  is  called, 
seems  a  veritable  paradise.  Not  that 
there  are  no  evidences  of  squalor  and 
poverty,  for  dirt  is  plentiful,  and  the 
Spanish  poor  are  poorer  than  our  own, 
but  the  corral,  as  these  tenements  are 
228 


CASA    DE    VECINOS 


The  Common  People 

sometimes  called,  has  plenty  of  good  air 
and  sunshine,  and  the  surroundings  are 
attractive  to  the  eye.  The  corral  has 
the  usual  open  court  surrounded  by  a 
double  arcade.  The  tenements  open 
onto  this  court,  and  the  Andalusian  poor 
man,  instead  of  gazing  down  a  narrow 
filthy  city  street,  looks  from  his  doorway 
upon  clean  white-washed  walls  and  grow- 
ing palms.  There  is  the  blue  sky  above 
to  cheer  him,  and  a  fountain  trickles  in 
the  courtyard.  Birds  chirp  in  their 
cages,  and  bright-eyed  girls  loiter  by  the 
fountain.  From  an  artistic  standpoint 
the  casa  de  vecinos  leaves  little  to  be 
desired.  Who  would  think  of  painting 
a  New  York  tenement?  However,  the 
quarters  are  small,  and  the  smells  are 
not  of  the  sweetest,  and  after  all,  the  life 
of  the  poor  the  world  over  is  much  the 
same.  But  if  any  choice  is  to  be  made 
the  poor  Spaniard's  lot  has  much  to  com- 
mend. His  wants  are  little  and  his 
diversions  many;  his  eye  is  ever  glad- 
dened by  green  trees  and  graceful  out- 
229 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

lines,  and  his  heart  is  not  disturbed  by 
wild  political  theories.  His  religion  is 
the  best  religion  for  the  poor  man,  be- 
cause it  holds  out  hope  and  commands 
fear,  and  by  its  church  organization  and 
tenets  teaches  obedience  and  respect  for 
organized  society. 

But  if  one  wants  to  come  face  to  face 
with  misery,  the  prison  is  the  place  to 
find  it.  The  lot  of  the  Spanish  prisoner 
is  miserable  in  the  extreme.  The  writer 
visited  six  or  seven  prisons  in  different 
cities,  and  with  the  exception  of  the 
carcel  modelo,  or  model  prison,  in  Ma- 
drid, and  the  women's  prison  at  Alcala, 
found  them  loathsome  dens,  where  the 
miserable  prisoners  are  huddled  together 
in  filth.  A  description  of  the  Seville 
prison  will  suffice,  as  that  institution  is 
typical  of  the  rest.  The  building  is  an 
old  monastery,  converted  to  its  present 
use  by  placing  iron  bars  on  the  windows 
and  sentry  boxes  about  the  walls.  There 
are  not  more  than  half  a  dozen  em- 
ployees to  look  after  five  hundred  male- 
230 


The  Common  People 

factors,  so  the  prisoners  are  left  very 
much  to  their  own  resources.  The  only 
labor  which  is  compulsory  is  the  domes- 
tic labor  of  the  establishment,  and  that 
is  poorly  performed.  The  cloisters  reek 
with  filth,  and  the  prisoners  themselves 
are  a  ragged  dirty  lot,  who  huddle  to- 
gether in  the  sun  without  even  the  solace 
of  hard  work.  They  sleep  on  straw 
mattresses  spread  on  the  stone  floors, 
and  their  two  daily  meals  consist  of  rice 
and  beans,  and  a  small  loaf  of  bread. 
They  are  permitted  to  smoke  if  fortunate 
enough  to  possess  friends  on  the  outside 
willing  to  supply  the  necessary  tobacco. 
Clothes  are  not  provided,  although  in  the 
penitentiaries,  for  longer  term  sentences, 
a  coarse  brown  uniform  is  furnished  the 
inmates.  In  the  Sevillian  prison,  how- 
ever, the  prisoners  are  arrayed  in  any 
form  of  tattered  garment  they  can  obtain. 
Looking  down  from  an  upper  window 
upon  the  throng  of  prisoners  eating  their 
morning  meal  in  the  open  court  yard, 
one  could  not  help  thinking  that  no 
231 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

matter  what  his  surroundings  may  be, 
the  Spaniard  is  attractive  to  the  eye. 
The  poor  creatures  were  squatting  on 
the  floor  in  groups  of  from  ten  to  twelve. 
In  the  centre  of  each  group  was  an 
earthen  pot  filled  with  the  routine  mix- 
ture of  rice  and  beans.  They  had  no 
plates  or  forks,  and  only  a  very  few  were 
fortunate  enough  to  possess  a  spoon. 
All  were  hurriedly  reaching  into  the 
common  pot,  and  gobbling  their  food  at 
a  pace  which  betrayed  the  natural  fear 
that  the  faster  eaters  might  obtain  an  un- 
due proportion  of  the  miserable  repast. 
But  in  spite  of  the  misery  and  filth  the 
grouping  was  picturesque,  the  costuming 
attractive,  and  above  the  white  prison 
walls  was  the  blue  Andalusian  sky. 

The  prisoners  are  allowed  to  receive 
gifts  of  food  and  clothes,  and  to  converse 
with  their  friends  through  an  iron  grille. 
Liquor  of  course  is  forbidden,  and  many 
are  the  devices  adopted  by  solicitous 
friends  for  smuggling  aguardiente  beyond 
the  bars.  The  civil  director  of  the  insti- 
232 


The  Common  People 

tution  presented  the  writer  with  an  inter- 
esting collection  of  double-bottomed 
pots  and  cans,  which,  ostensibly  filled 
with  food,  had  contained  the  precious 
liquor  in  their  concealed  compartments. 
Some  of  them  were  very  ingeniously  con- 
structed ;  likewise  some  knives  made  from 
the  handles  of  spoons,  and  other  objects 
turned  to  illegitimate  use.  The  great 
fault  of  Spanish  prisons  is  that  the  pris- 
oners are  not  compelled  to  work,  and 
are  given  free  intercourse  among  them- 
selves; thus  criminals  of  all  sorts  are 
thrown  together,  and  the  better  elements 
are  dragged  down  to  the  level  of  the 
worst.  That  the  Spanish  authorities 
realize  this  is  evidenced  by  the  model 
prison  of  Madrid,  where  each  prisoner 
has  his  cell  and  silence  is  imposed  during 
the  first  period  of  the  incarceration. 
The  model  prison  is  well  named,  for  it 
is  a  model  of  its  kind,  admirably  con- 
structed and  scrupulously  clean;  but 
even  there  labor  is  not  enforced,  al- 
though permitted. 

333 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Sociology,  however,  is  far  from  the 
purpose  of  this  little  book,  and  crime 
and  its  devotees  are  repulsive,  even 
when  attired  in  the  graceful  garb  of  the 
Spaniard. 

It  is  an  unfortunate  thing  for  Spain, 
and  perhaps  the  secret  of  its  misfortunes, 
that  it  does  not  possess  a  middle  class. 
Between  the  patrician  and  the  peasant 
there  is  only  the  petty  shopkeeper. 
Even  he  is  not  thrifty  and  frugal  like  the 
French  bourgeois.  If  he  is  fortunate 
enough  to  acquire  a  competence,  his  son, 
instead  of  continuing  the  family  busi- 
ness, must  be  a  soldier  or  a  government 
clerk,  in  order  that  he  may  purge  the 
family  of  the  taint  of  trade. 

The  Spanish  bourgeois  is  certainly  re- 
pulsive. Lacking  the  courtliness  of  the 
nobility,  and  the  easy  grace  of  the  peas- 
ant, he  is  in  every  sense  a  coarse,  boor- 
ish fellow,  slovenly  and  uncleanly,  whose 
manners  are  execrable,  and  whose  char- 
acter has  not  even  the  redeeming  feature 
of  thrift.  He  is  ignorant,  bigoted  and 
234 


The  Common  People 

lazy,  and  the  more  one  sees  of  Spain  the 
more  strongly  one  feels  convinced  that 
the  expulsion  of  the  Jews  and  Moors, 
the  thrifty  and  producing  classes,  laid 
the  foundation  of  nineteenth  century 
poverty.  Spain  has  never  had  a  true 
middle  class  since  the  Moor  and  the  Jew 
were  banished.  The  gulf  between  the 
nobility  and  the  peasantry  is  too  great. 
The  poor  are  hopelessly  poor,  with  no 
chance  to  rise.  The  nobility  are  too 
closely  bound  by  pride  and  tradition  to 
descend  to  work;  and  there  is  no  ener- 
getic middle  class  to  develop  the  splen- 
did resources  of  the  land.  The  bigoted 
Isabella  and  the  imbecile  Philip  little 
knew  the  injury  they  were  doing  their 
beloved  land  when  in  the  name  of  relig- 
ion they  banished  hundreds  of  thousands 
of  the  most  useful  of  their  subjects. 


Gibraltar 

LIKE  a  lion  couchant,  slumbering 
with  his  shaggy  head  between  his 
paws,  lies  ponderous  Gibraltar.  Waves 
splash  lazily  at  its  feet,  fleecy  clouds 
drift  peacefully  above  its  scraggy  form, 
the  warships  of  Europe  ride  pigmy-like 
at  anchor  beneath  its  towering  sides; 
while  puffing  launches  and  swarms  of 
white-winged  feluccas  dart  to  and  fro 
between  the  rocky  monster  and  the 
Spanish  shore.  Ships  pass  and  repass, 
men  of  many  nations  come  and  go,  the 
world  moves  on;  yet  silently  this  lion 
of  England  watches,  the  ever  ready,  ever 
alert,  guardian  of  the  Mediterranean. 

That   is  one's  first  impression  of  Gib- 
raltar, when  approaching  from  the  sea; 
but  as  the  ship  draws  nearer,  and  the 
cable  rattles  in  the  hawse-hole,  the  scene 
236 


Gibraltar 

is  changed  to  one  of  life  and  action. 
Boats  crowd  about  the  steamer, ruffianly 
watermen  jabber  and  gesticulate,  whis- 
tles screech,  and  the  faint  notes  of  a 
bugle,  or  the  roll  of  drums  come  from 
distant  barrack  yards.  Perched  in  clus- 
ters along  the  water-front  are  the  stuc- 
coed houses  of  the  Spanish  town;  be- 
yond and  stretching  far  out  into  the 
Mediterranean,  the  dull  grey  walls  of 
ramparts  and  batteries,  with  here  and 
there,  and  almost  everywhere,  little 
specks  of  red,  marking  the  sentries  on 
their  beats. 

Gibraltar  is  no  longer  a  lion,  but  a 
monster  hive  of  humanity,  with  its  rocky 
sides  honeycombed  with  galleries  and 
casemates,  where  scarlet  bees  swarm, 
and  dull  drones  toil.  Through  the  years 
they  have  labored  with  chisel  and  blast; 
patiently  and  wisely  they  have  built 
their  hive,  and  woe  to  the  bear  who  at- 
tempts to  crush  them;  he  will  feel  their 
sting. 

How  alien,  how  cosmopolitan  is  this 
237 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

Gibraltar,  a  mere  spur  of  rock,  sticking 
like  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  Spain,  and  yet 
not  Spanish,  or  Moorish,  or  British, 
but  rather  a  sourish  leaven  of  Spaniard 
and  Moor,  with  red  English  plums, 
dotted  here  and  there,  to  give  it  a  zest 
and  flavor  not  its  own.  One  forgets 
what  a  thoroughly  detestable  fellow  the 
"rock  scorpion"  is,  what  an  off  scouring, 
without  nationality,  individuality  or 
friend.  The  Spaniard  despises  the  na- 
tives of  "  Gib,"  the  Englishman  scorns 
them,  the  stranger  distrusts  them,  yet 
there  are  some  twenty  thousand  of  them, 
living  there  under  martial  rule,  their  ac- 
tions regulated,  their  laws  made  and 
executed  by  a  foreign  power.  A  very  good 
thing  for  them,  too,  as  they  are  made  to 
behave  themselves,  and  keep  themselves 
—or  at  least  their  streets — clean  in  a  way 
that  is  unknown  in  neighboring  Spain. 

But  the  "rock  scorpion"  in  all  his  en- 
tirety, is  not  to  be  seen  from  a  steamer's 
deck.     One  must  land  at  the  water  port 
and  patiently  await  the  arrival  of  one's 
238 


Gibraltar 

luggage  to  realize  what  a  thorough 
blending  of  the  east  and  west,  time  and 
foreign  conquest  have  made  of  the  Rock 
of  Tarik. 

No  more  cosmopolitan  scene  is  to  be 
witnessed  in  Europe  than  that  presented 
at  the  water  port.  It  is  an  ever-shifting 
panorama  of  strange  humanity. 

Olive-skinned  watermen,  with  half- 
burned  cigarettes  between  their  lips,  doze 
on  the  thwarts  of  their  high-prowed  boats, 
while  swarthy  peasants  from  Algeciras  or 
Linea,  with  brilliant  sashes  and  broad- 
brimmed  hats,  skin-tight  trousers,  and 
short  braided  jackets,  come  and  go  with 
the  lazy  air  of  Spain.  Low-wheeled 
vans  freighted  with  English  beer  or  Chi- 
cago beef,  rattle  over  the  cobbles  of  the 
quay,  while  mules  with  jangling  bells 
and  gaily  embroidered  headstalls,  strug- 
gle in  the  shafts  of  high-wheeled  Spanish 
carts,  and  patient  donkeys,  their  little 
bodies  smothered  beneath  bulging  pan- 
niers of  straw,  trot  by  unmindful  of 
the  shrill  cries  of  their  masters. 
239 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

What  color;  what  variety!  There  are 
stately  Moors  with  flowing  robes  of 
white,  and  high-bound  turbans;  thin 
savage  Riffians,  sleek  padres  with  shovel 
hats  and  sombre  gowns,  dark-eyed 
women  from  Andalusia,  their  oily  hair 
gracefully  adorned  with  lace  mantillas; 
barefooted  urchins,  tourists,  stevedores, 
policemen,  sailors  of  all  nations,  and 
soldiers  of  Spain,  with  smart  Tommy 
Atkins,  sturdy  and  erect,  as  only  the 
British  soldiers  can  be,  standing  guard 
over  all. 

The  morning  is  calm  and  misty,  not 
a  ripple  on  the  water,  not  a  breath  on 
the  folds  of  the  drying  sails.  Behind  the 
gates  and  ramparts  of  the  town  the  huge 
rock  rises  against  the  sky  like  the 
painted  curtain  of  a  theatre,  its  grey 
side  studded  with  little  houses,  square 
and  white  as  the  toy  houses  of  children, 
with  here  and  there  upon  the  hillsides 
tufts  of  scrubby  foliage,  cold  and  gaunt 
as  the  rock  itself.  Then,  as  the  sun 
breaks  through  the  mist,  dew  sparkles 
240 


Gibraltar 

on  the  green  grass  of  the  ramparts, 
the  bayonets  of  the  sentries  glisten, 
smoke  curls  from  the  chimneys  of  the 
town,  flags  flutter,  the  colors  on  the 
hillside  grow  warm  and  brilliant,  and  the 
stirring  notes  of  the  fifes  and  drums 
break  on  the  morning  air. 

But  that  is  only  the  landing  stage, 
where  the  boats  land  from  the  ships  at 
anchor  in  the  bay.  The  town  itself 
stretches  along  the  western  side  of  the 
rock  for  a  mile  or  more  in  a  series  of 
narrow  streets,  where  English  signs  and 
Spanish  houses  are  mixed  incongruously; 
where  Englishmen  and  Spaniards  meet, 
but  do  not  affiliate. 

There  are  the  same  stuccoed  houses 
that  one  sees  in  Spain,  white  or  delicate 
blue  and  yellow;  the  same  graceful  bal- 
conies and  sloping  roofs  of  tile,  the  same 
dingy  little  shops  open  to  the  street,  the 
same  bodegas  at  the  corner,  where 
groups  of  loiterers  are  gathered,  drink- 
ing valdepenas  or  aguardiente,  and  all 
without  the  filth  and  many  of  the  smells. 
241 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

The  English  keep  the  town  clean;  they 
place  English  names  upon  the  street  cor- 
ners; English  signs  and  English  goods 
are  seen  on  every  hand;  red-coated 
English  soldiers  and  red-faced  English 
matrons  mingle  with  the  crowds  which 
throng  the  streets;  but  the  town  and  the 
people  are  as  Spanish  to-day  as  they 
were  when  the  Prince  of  Darmstadt  and 
Sir  George  Rooke  attacked  the  rock  by 
land  and  sea,  and  added  another  fort- 
ress to  the  spoils  of  England. 

That  was  in  1704,  during  the  war  of 
the  Spanish  succession,  when  Spain  was 
weak  and  imbecile,  and  all  Europe  was 
fighting  for  her  crown.  The  garrison 
scarcely  mustered  a  hundred  men,  but 
even  this  handful  might  have  held  out 
had  it  not  been  for  some  patron  saint, 
whose  festival  happened  to  fall  on  the 
second  day  of  the  bombardment.  The 
garrison  thinking  devotion  the  better 
part  of  valor,  went  to  pray,  and  the  place 
was  surprised  by  scaling  the  eastern 
portion  of  the  rock  and  attacking  the 
242 


Gibraltar 

fortress  from  above.  When  the  captors 
entered  the  town  Darmstadt  hoisted  the 
Spanish  standard,  and  proclaimed  King 
Charles,  but  the  admiral,  with  the 
voracity  of  the  true  Englishman,  took 
possession  in  the  name  of  the  Queen  of 
England. 

It  was  a  game  of  grab,  not  the  only  one 
nor  the  last  which  England  has  played, 
but  it  was  successful,  and  there  the  red- 
coats have  remained  for  nearly  two 
centuries,  by  no  other  right  than  that  of 
possession.  In  the  meantime  the  Span- 
ish officers  at  Linea  date  their  letters 
from  Gibraltar,  with  the  parenthetical 
remark,  that  it  is  temporarily  in  the 
possession  of  the  English,  and  Tommy 
Atkins,  pacing  his  beat,  gazes  disdain- 
fully across  the  barren  strip  of  neutral 
ground  at  the  dark-skinned  sentries  who 
guard  the  Spanish  lines. 

It  was  somewhere  near  this  neutral 
ground,  that  Tarik,  the  one-eyed  Moor, 
landed  at  the  foot  of  the  rock  of  Calpe,  as 
the  "Gib"  was  then  called,  when  he  came 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

in  the  year  711,  with  his  little  army  of 
Arabs  and  Berbers  to  reconnoitre  Gothic 
Spain.  Tank's  master,  Mousa,  the  vali 
of  Arab  Tingitana,  across  the  straits, 
had  sent  his  one-eyed  general,  with  an 
army  of  light  horsemen,  to  burn  and  pil- 
lage, and  then  return  to  Africa,  but  the 
wily  veteran  saw  the  defenceless  state 
of  the  enervated  kingdom.  Advancing 
boldly  into  Andalusia,  he  met  King 
Roderic  on  the  banks  of  the  Guadalete 
near  Jerez,  and  in  spite  of  every  disad- 
vantage in  numbers,  position  and  sup- 
plies, he  routed  the  effeminate  army  of 
the  Goth  and  overran  Spain.  Tarik 
incurred  the  jealousy  of  Mousa,  his  chief. 
Conquest  after  conquest  followed.  The 
Moor  in  Spain  is  but  a  memory,  but  the 
name  of  the  one-eyed  victor  still  remains, 
where  the  conqueror  of  a  later  day  looks 
down  from  the  rock  of  Calpe  upon  the 
sunny  plains  and  snow-capped  siena  of 
Andalusia.  Gibel  Tarik,  meaning  hill  of 
Tarik,  has  been  corrupted  by  successive 
ages  and  tongues  into  Gibraltar. 
244 


Gibraltar 

All  that  is  history,  and  of  history  there 
is  a  surfeit  at  the  "Gib."  There  have 
been  sieges  and  stormings  galore,  but 
the  one  the  English  most  revere  is  the 
defense  of  "Old  Eliot'  in  1779,  when  for 
four  years  the  rock  held  out  against  the 
united  arms  of  France  and  Spain,  and  in 
spite  of  the  floating  batteries  of  d'Arcon, 
which  "could  neither  be  burnt,  sunk 
nor  taken,"  it  still  remains  a  British 
possession,  garrisoned  by  a  British  force 
of  six  thousand  men. 

One  confesses  to  a  fondness  for  this 
British  force.  Wherever  the  English 
soldier  finds  his  home  there  is  color,  life 
and  smartness.  With  his  forage  cap 
perched  aslant  upon  his  close  cropped 
head,  his  brilliant  tunic  buttoned  to  the 
chin  with  shining  buttons  of  brass,  his 
pipe  clayed  belt,  and  his ' '  swagger  stick, ' ' 
he  walks  the  street  with  a  mingled 
sturdiness  and  dash  quite  his  own. 
His  face  is  bronzed,  and  his  hair  is 
flaxen,  his  shoulders  are  broad  and  his 
eyes  are  keen,  and  seeing  him  one  un- 
245 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

derstands  the  remark  of  Napoleon,  that 
"the  British  infantry  is  the  best  in  the 
world ;  thank  God  there  are  so  few  of 
them." 

Gibraltar  might  be  said  to  be  in  a  con- 
tinuous state  of  siege.  The  vigorous 
rules  of  a  military  post  are  never  relaxed. 
The  fact  that  it  is  a  foreign  post,  held 
by  force  in  a  foreign  country,  is  never 
forgotten.  At  retreat  the  gates  are 
closed;  at  reveille  they  are  opened. 
None  but  Englishmen  are  allowed  to 
enter  without  a  pass,  and  none  but  resi- 
dents permitted  to  spend  the  night.  The 
Spanish  laborers  from  San  Roque  who 
come  for  the  day  are  forced  to  leave 
at  nightfall.  A  bell  of  warning  clangs 
like  an  alarm  of  fire  before  retreat  is 
sounded,  and  then  the  streets  are 
thronged  with  grimy  workmen  from 
Spain — men,  women,  even  children,  hur- 
rying to  get  beyond  the  gates  before  the 
closing  of  the  town. 

At  sunset  the  warden  bearing  the  keys, 
marches  through  the  streets  to  the  stir- 
246 


Gibraltar 

ring  strains  of  the  fifes  and  drums  or  the 
braying  notes  of  Highland  pipes,  and 
locks  the  gates  for  the  night.  Again 
at  the  hour  of  taps,  martial  music 
echoes  through  the  town,  as  the  pipers 
of  the  Black  watch  or  the  drummers  of 
some  regiment  of  the  line,  swing  through 
the  narrow  streets,  their  red  coats  glinting 
in  the  lights  which  glare  from  shop  or 
tavern,  their  feet  falling  in  measured 
time  upon  the  glistening  cobbles  of  the 
pavement. 

At  night  a  city  is  at  its  best  or  worst 
according  to  one's  point  of  view.  Then 
the  noises  of  the  day  are  gone,  the  dirt 
is  invisible,  and  harsh  outlines  or  inhar- 
monious colors  are  lost  in  sombre 
shadow.  Gibraltar  at  night  becomes 
completely  Spanish.  Men  wrapped  in 
the  folds  of  graceful  capas  fill  the 
streets,  saunter  idly  in  pairs  or  groups, 
unmindful  of  the  existence  of  side- 
walks; women  and  girls,  with  colored 
shawls  of  brilliant  hues  and  mantillas  on 
their  comely  heads,  chatter  and  laugh  in 
247 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

the  tones  of  Andalusia,  while  glasses 
chink  in  the  bodegas,  and  from  behind 
closed  doors  comes  the  click  of  casta- 
nets, the  twang  of  a  guitar.  There  are 
dingy  highways,  too,  winding  upward 
into  the  night,  where  paupers  skulk,  or 
dark  skinned  Cyprians  squat  in  their 
doorways  and  cast  languishing  glances 
at  stalwart  Tommy  Atkins,  as  he  loiters 
toward  the  barrack  yard. 

In  the  main  street  is  the  "Cafe1  Uni- 
versal, "where  at  night  the  soldiers  of  the 
garrison  and  sailors  of  the  fleets  gather 
to  drink  their  English  beer;  and  natives 
of  the  town  who  ape  their  English  mas- 
ters assemble  about  the  marble  tables 
to  chat  and  talk  and  pretend  to  be  Eng- 
lish. These  anglomaniacs  of  the  "Gib" 
are  a  curious  type, — they  must  be  de- 
spised by  both  Spaniard  and  Briton,  but 
they  persevere  in  wearing  covert  coats, 
and  English  caps,  in  carrying  bamboo 
sticks,  and  talking  English  with  a  soft 
lisp  which  is  unmistakable.  They  are 
fond  of  fox  terriers'  and  brilliant  ties, 
248 


Gibraltar 

and  the  Cafe  Universal  seems  to  be  their 
lounging  place.  This  cafe  is  well  named. 
It  is  the  universal  meeting  ground  of  all 
classes  of  "Gib"  society.  The  arms  of 
many  nations  are  painted  on  the  walls 
where  mirrors  glisten,  and  the  adver- 
tisements of  Bass's  Ale  and  Canadian 
whiskey,  American  hotels,  or  Spanish 
wines,  mingle  in  cosmopolite  confusion. 
There  is  a  din  of  voices,  the  air  is  dense 
with  smoke,  canary  birds  chirp  in  their 
gilded  cages,  waiters  of  Spanish  cast 
come  and  go  or  loiter  by  the  tables, 
smoking  their  cigarillos  with  a  familiar- 
ity which  is  truly  Spanish;  while  here 
and  there,  mingling,  with  the  dull  black 
of  civilian  dress,  are  the  dashing  uni- 
forms of  the  British  soldiers,  and  at  a 
table  by  themselves,  a  group  of  blue 
jackets  from  a  Yankee  cruiser,  now  half 
seas  over,  to  remind  one  of  the  land 
across  the  ocean.  Above  the  hum  of 
voices  rise  the  notes  of  a  piano,  while 
upon  a  platform  placed  to  one  side,  dark 
girls  from  Malaga,  dressed  a  la  manola, 
249 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

with  brilliant  scarfs  of  silk  and  roses  in 
their  hair,  dance  to  the  time  of  casta- 
nets, the  sensuous  dances  of  Southern 
Spain. 

But  all  that  is  of  the  town  and  people, 
and  the  guide  book  says  the  town  is 
uninteresting  and  dull.  One  forgets  the 
mighty  rock  which  towers  above,  frown- 
ing and  grey,  with  its  old  Moorish  castle 
perched  like  an  eagle  on  a  crag,  with  its 
chilly  galleries  chiseled  and  blasted  in 
the  limestone,  where  the  mouths  of  can- 
nons glare  yawning  from  behind  the 
cactus  or  palmetto,  and  the  steps  of  the 
sentry  echo.  Scrambling  through  a 
rocky  port  one  gazes  down  for  full  a 
thousand  feet  upon  the  harbor  and  the 
plain  below.  Dwarfish  ships  ride  at 
anchor  on  the  bay;  a  battalion,  at  ex- 
tended order  drill,  is  spread  over  the 
parade  like  little  tufts  of  red  upon  a 
carpet  of  green  velvet.  Beyond  are  the 
race  course  and  polo  grounds  where  little 
ponies  scramble  like  mice  at  play,  and 
then  the  narrow  strip  of  neutral  land 
250 


Gibraltar 

stretches  between  the  sea  and  the  bay, 
where  sentries  pace  and  the  sturdy 
Briton  gazes  defiantly  at  the  sunburnt 
child  of  Spain.  In  the  distance,  across 
the  blue  water,  the  white  walls  of  Al- 
geciras  and  San  Roque  shine  in  the 
sunlight,  and  the  green  sloping  hills 
and  snow-capped  mountains  of  Andalusia 
rise  sharp  against  the  fleecy  sky.  It  is  a 
view  to  be  remembered. 

The  batteries  of  ponderous  modern 
guns,  and  El  Hacho,  the  signal  tower, 
are  now  closed  to  visitors,  so  one  no 
longer  gazes,  as  at  a  former  visit,  across 
the  straits  to  the  misty  hills  of  Morocco 
where  the  Moorish  cities  of  Tangier  and 
Ceuta  nestle  by  the  sea.  You  used  to 
scramble  on  donkeys  over  the  crest  of 
the  rock,  and  visit  St.  Michael's  cave 
below ;  cockney  gunners  used  to  point  the 
great  guns  at  Africa,  and  detail  their 
carrying  power  and  caliber,  but  the 
authorities  have  grown  suspicious,  and 
now  but  half  the  "Gib"  is  shown  to  the 
foreign  visitor,  while  even  the  where- 
251 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

abouts  of  the  newest  batteries  is  kept  a 
secret. 

After  a  visit  to  the  galleries  tunneled 
in  the  northern  face  of  the  rock,  where 
antiquated  cannon  point  in  mere  bravado 
toward  the  Spanish  lines,  you  drive 
along  the  ledge-like  road  which  runs  a 
zig-zag  way  to  the  Alameda.  Beside 
this  road  are  perched  the  dainty  little 
villas  of  the  officers;  trim  Spanish 
houses,  with  English  garden  spots,  be- 
hind grey  walls  of  stone,  where  roses 
bloom  and  there  is  a  sweet  smell  of 
jasmine.  Neat  English  maids  and 
ruddy  English  babies,  smart  pony  carts 
and  basket  phaetons  with  Spanish  ser- 
vants in  London  liveries,  remind  one  of 
foggy  England.  Here  healthy  girls  with 
flat-soled  boots  and  pink-faced  officers 
in  "mufti"  stride  along  with  a  swinging 
step  in  striking  contrast  to  the  saunter- 
ing Spaniard.  But  there  are  the  strings 
of  meek-eyed  donkeys  with  their  sway- 
ing ears  and  the  tinkling  goat  bells  to 


252 


Gibraltar 

recall  the  south,  and  then  the  Alameda 
with  its  palms  and  cactus  plants  is 
reached.  A  park  with  geraniums  and 
bowers,  and  tropical  trees  laid  out  with 
the  precision  of  the  English  landscape 
gardener,  this  Alameda  is  the  pride  of 
Gibraltar.  But  there  is  only  time  for  a 
glance  at  the  shady  paths  and  green 
waters  for  the  spry  Gibraltar  pony  is 
scrambling  over  the  ground,  and  soon 
the  little  phaeton-like  cab  is  whirling 
through  the  streets  of  the  town  again. 
Huge  bastions  with  frowning  guns — 
barrack  yards,  where  soldiers  lounge 
upon  the  balconies — military  storehouses 
— the  governor's  mansion,  and  tortuous 
lines  of  narrow  street  way,  with  quaint 
smoky  houses  and  sloping  roofs,  pass  in 
review.  You  meet  Spanish  "bobbies" 
in  English  clothes,  and  Spanish  boys  in 
Eton  jackets,  diminutive  car-like  'buses 
with  jangling  bells  upon  the  horses 
necks,  huge  carts  drawn  by  oxen  or 
mules,  smart  officers  astride  their  Eng- 


253 


The  Land  of  the  Castanet 

lish  mounts,  and  countless  other  sights, 
and  then  the  show  is  over;  the  hotel  is 
reached. 

From  a  former  visit  of  much  longer 
duration,  there  are  memories  to  add  of 
officers'  messes  and  clubs,  tennis  par- 
ties, dinners  and  visits,  for  an  English 
garrison  always  makes  a  charming 
society.  But  all  that  is  no  more  typi- 
cal of  the  "Gib"  than  it  is  of  Halifax,  of 
Malta,  or  wherever  the  Union  Jack  is 
unfurled. 

The  last  glimpse  of  Gibraltar  was 
from  Algeciras  across  the  bay.  From 
there  the  rock  looks  as  peaceful  and 
sleepy  as  the  fishermen  who  dozed  in 
their  boats. 

A  Carabinero,  mounting  guard,  march- 
ed lazily  to  and  fro  upon  the  quay.  His 
timeworn  uniform  was  ill-fitting,  his  beard 
unshaven,  but  he  was  picturesque  and 
typical  of  sunny  Spain.  He  blended 
with  the  feluccas  and  the  brigantines 
— the  beggars  and  the  white  washed 


254 


Gibraltar 

houses,  and  made  it  difficult  to  realize 
that  across  that  stretch  of  water,  where 
the  white  sails  glared  in  the  sun-light 
was  a  mighty  fortress,  with  bastions  and 
guns,  with  galleries  and  batteries,  where 
the  flag  of  England  fluttered  and  the 
Highlander  was  piping  the  war-songs 
of  his  island  home. 


PRINTED    AT    THE    LAKESIDE    PRESS 

FOR   HERBERT   S.   STONE   &  CO. 

PUBLISHERS,     CHICAGO 


October,  1896.  Established  May,  iS)6,  Number  1. 

Catalogue 

of 

The  Publications 

of 

Herbert  S.  Stone  &  Company 

The  Caxton  Building, 

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HENRY  JAMES. 

WHAT  MAISIE  KNEW  ;  a  novelette.    i6mo. 
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RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE. 

PROSE  FANCIES  ;  second  series,  by  the  author 
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MARTIN  J.  PRITCHARD. 

WITHOUT  SIN ;  a  novel,     izmo.    $1.25. 

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ALBERT  KINROSS. 

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EPISCOPO  AND  COMPANY.  Translated  by 
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ARTHUR  MORRISON. 

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MISS  AYR  OF  VIRGINIA  AND  OTHER 
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ALICE  MORSE  EARLE. 
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